The Blood of a Crimson Sky
by GeneticallyPredisposedChicken
Summary: 24 years after the 74th Hunger Games ended in only one victor, the Capitol's tyranny still rages on. The 98th Hunger Games are here, and with turmoil brewing at the heart of Panem, this pageantry of blood will leave not a victor - but a victim.
1. Nightfall in District 9

**24 years have passed since the 74****th**** Hunger Games – an event where the star-crossed lovers of Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark died unremarkably by the hands of District 2's capable tributes. Surprisingly, it was District 11's male tribute – Thresh – who won those Games. Now the event continues, with the Capitol's hand growing stronger by the day over Panem.**

**In District 9, Skye Holdrege lives the ordinary life of a working-class fifteen year-old girl – she hopes never to face the Hunger Games, but one day must confront her own future in her backwater, crop-harvesting district. However, when destiny calls, Skye won't be able to escape the fate she'll have to live up to.**

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**District 9 | 24 Years After the 74****th**** Hunger Games**

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My parents named me after the everlasting blue sky of our district – but it's the star-studded night I've always loved.

It's still hot even at 10 o'clock on night in the dead of summer. I curl my hands around my knees, tucking my legs closer to my chest. There's something about the night sky that makes me feel vulnerable – or even just small. All those other points, staring out at me from the blackness…and as I know I can never touch them, I can only stare upwards in amazement. Maybe one day, those stars will come reach me.

"Skye," a baritone male voice calls from behind me. "Are you ever going to bed?"

I look up from my spot, seeing my nineteen year-old brother leaning against one of our small house's wooden struts. He's chewing on a piece of grain, stuck in his mouth like an awkward cigarette. My brother - Sage – and I share the same fine brown hair, but besides that, we're different in far too many ways to count. His piercing brown eyes contrast sharply from my soft blue orbs, and his muscular build would've been perfect for the Hunger Games that he's since outgrown. Me? I'm just a skinny girl in a district too poor to feed many people.

We're middle-class folk, relatively speaking. My father – my only parent left, since my mother died having me – works in the barley fields as a reaper, serving twelve-hour days. I hardly see him; because of that, I feel like I hardly _know_ him. Sage has become my surrogate parent, even as he prepares for a job of his own here in District 9. He's the closest thing I have to a mentor…here in District 9, everyone takes the "work hard and keep your head down" mantra seriously. As a teenager, it means your chances of having a real relationship with an adult are virtually nil. Sunup to sundown; then you go to sleep. That's life.

I shrug at his question. I'll have to go to bed eventually, of course: Tomorrow _is _Reaping Day for the 98th Hunger Games. Showing up late to the late-morning event would be…unwise.

"Some time," I reply cryptically. "You're not going to bed?"

He gives me a short laugh wandering down our house's creaky wooden steps to where I'm sitting. My father's been asleep for a while now – working from sunup to sundown does that to you. I'm afraid for when Sage has to hit the fields himself. There's no way around it – I've always hoped he'd end up as a shopkeeper or something, but I don't think he has the entrepreneurial spirit. It can be dangerous out in the wheat, barley, and soy patties, where an errant swing of a scythe or kukri can lop off a limb. It's certainly not unheard of.

"You worried?" he sits down next to me, shaking a firm hand through my ponytail-tied hair. "Don't be. You won't be picked tomorrow. You don't even take tesserae yet. That's what…four slips in the bowl? Nothing to worry about."

"Not really worried," I lie, fretting. Well, half-lie. "What if it's Reed or Shrike or someone else I know? They can't just not take tesserae; they – "

"Hey," Sage grabs my shoulder as I spew gibberish about my friends in the district being Reaped. "You can't control any of that; okay, Skye? Let's just look after you, first. Look – once the Reaping's over, we can get back to normal. Back to the harvest, 'til the summer's over…then it's back to school for you, and we don't have to think about these kind of things until next June. Sound good?"

"No," I remark honestly.

"Well…" Sage replies wryly. "So much for me trying to be a good guy. Never was good at that act."

We're quiet for a while, sitting on the splinter-covered wooden steps of our small abode. I stare at the ground, the dirt covered in cracks from the dry heat of summer. Weeds sprout out from empty patches in the soil, tempting me to clamp down on them with my bare feet. I press my big toe into the earth, stamping out the leafy weeds with one quick motion. Nothing to it.

"What d'you think it's like?" I ask absent-mindedly to no one in particular.

"What, in the Games?" Sage answers, staring towards the muted white lights of the town center, a mile off in the distance. "Probably Hell. Kill a bunch of kids you don't know…get lauded by a bunch of Capitol people. I sure wouldn't want to live it."

"No," I reply, imagining how stupid my question probably sounded. "Living up there…in the dark, with all the stars. No Games; no Capitol, no Peacekeepers…no worry like this. Just darkness and light."

"Heh," Sage looks up at the stars I'm gazing towards. He doesn't understand the fascination I have with them - the fascination with another life, away from all of this…melancholiness…but he humors me all the same. "How do you know there's no Capitol up there, huh? No Hunger Games in the night sky…no Peacekeepers high above. Maybe they're looking down here, wondering how good we have it."

"No," I shove him in the shoulder. "They're not thinking that."

"Maybe," he laughs. "Maybe."

Silence descends upon us again as I brood over my thoughts. Am I really fearful over my chances of being picked tomorrow? Sage is right, of course – my chances are miniscule with only four slips in the Reaping Bowl. I've offered to take tesserae, but my brother has strictly forbid it. My father's income is enough to keep us going, I suppose, and Sage smashes street rats with rocks on the occasion we run out of food. It's not a great life, by any means – but we are better than some kids in the district. The children of the grain processors – those who sort out the wheat from the chaff in the factories – barely cling to life. I shudder to think how the kids in the orphanage have it. They have no one to rely on – no shoulder to cry on in their darkest hours, like I do.

"What if I do get picked?" I murmur to the warm night air. "Would it hurt?"

"Well…getting a new house wouldn't hurt when you won," Sage shrugs.

I give him a slight smile: "Who'd want to live next to Selene and Omaha, though?"

District 9's two surviving victors aren't anything to write home about. Selene won the 83rd Games; she's a foul-mouthed individual if one ever lived. She gets her kicks these days by picking fights with drunkards, forgetting her past through the violence she still indulges in. Omaha's a bit different: District 9's male victor, winner of the 75th Games – the third Quarter Quell, where past victors chose their new tributes – is far too quiet of a man. I don't think anyone's ever figured him out; whatever secrets he's hiding, I don't know.

"Nice house, though…" Sage breaks me out of my thoughts. "Living in the Victor's Village? Yeeks. Never having to worry about money? I'd take it."

"Never gonna happen," I mutter. "Not with those big Volunteers from District 2 every year."

Sage turns to look me straight in the eye, his eyes bright in the dark night air: "You know what would happen if you were Reaped, Skye?"

"I dunno."

"You'd win," Sage gives me a forced smile. He's trying to cheer me up, but his attempts aren't doing a whole lot of good. "You're the smartest girl I know, and that's saying something, given how big District 9 is. Heck, you could probably just confuse the other kids to death. Make them go crazy with all the stuff you tell me from school. It's enough to make _me_ go crazy."

"Like that'd work," I sigh.

Sage gets serious, putting a hand on my shoulder: "Look, Skye…if somehow, some way, you do get picked. "That…smart-ness? It helps. You can do things nobody else can. You can fight in ways nobody else knows how. You're not just some ordinary girl. Don't think like that."

"Yes I am," I push him away. "Every tribute every year probably thinks they're special. Twenty-three die. They weren't very special, after all. Just like me."

"Would you really go running into the Cornucopia like an idiot?" Sage regards me with a stupid expression.

"Well…_no_, of course," I gasp. Why's he have to ask me all these questions? "It's called a bloodbath for a reason."

"Heck, then you're already better than anywhere from eight to fourteen tributes every year," he smiles. "Odds certainly seem in _your_ favor. I have no idea how to kill a mutt or outsmart a volunteer, but hey, that's why they have training, right?"

"I thought it was to make a good show," I look away from him, back towards the twinkling stars in the sky that seem even lonelier in the backdrop of this depressing conversation. I've got no one to blame but myself; I asked my brother about it, after all. "Make sure a few kids don't die on the first day and spoil the 'entertainment.'"

"I don't pretend to know how the Capitol works," Sage replies. "Forget about it, Skye. You'll be here tomorrow night, laughing like it was a stupid thing. No one you know's gonna be picked. You won't be picked. No problems."

He's surrendered to my badgering. I feel a little guilty; I know Sage wants to protect me, as his little sister and only real family connection. I can't help but dwell on the pessimistic subjects.

"Can you name 'em all?" he pipes up after we sit in awkward silence for several minutes. "All…what, one thousand of them, or so?"

I smile: "I don't think anybody can. There's too many."

"Give it a shot."

"Perseus, Pisces, Pegaus…" I start quoting constellations. We learn these things in school, but few besides me bother to remember them. "You'll get bored if I try to name them all, Sage."

"Yeah," he admits sheepishly. "Yeah, I will. I'll go to bed then…try to do the same, Skye. Hate it if you look like some tired old goat on television for the Capitol tomorrow when they pan over you all in the square."

"You don't even have to stand there anymore," I retort.

"I'll have to watch you from the screens on the streets," he replies. "What do I say if people near me go, 'Oh, look at that tired-looking, creepy girl? Who's she related to?'"

I quietly laugh as he shuts the door behind him, but inside, I'm growing more worried by the minute. The chances are slim that I'm picked, but someone I know – a friend or otherwise – could certainly be Reaped. It hasn't happened in the three years I've gone through so far, but there's always the chance I'll have to watch someone I know fight to the death on live tv, living and dying by their every breath. Can I take that kind of stress? Can I even watch that without breaking down?

I bury my chin in my knees, looking up at the stars. It would be a lot easier to live out there, really…to be far away from District 9 and Panem; to be beyond the reach of the Games and the Capitol. To be free…if only I could reach it.

It's a pipe dream. There is no "free" here in District 9. There's no escaping what we're told to do.

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**Author's Note: With the death of Katniss and Peeta in the 74****th**** Games, the Capitol has continued its reign of terror for nearly a quarter-century more. Now, more advanced, with a young new president, and seeking to exert its control, the Capitol has focused on creating the greatest spectacle of bloodsport it can in the Hunger Games.**

**The Hunger Games, Panem, Finnick, Thresh, Johanna, and all other canonical properties belong to Suzanne Collins. Original works belong to me. This is technically a re-imagining of an earlier story series I wrote under a different pen name, but major changes and differences have been T for violence, language, and blood.  
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**Hope you enjoy! I welcome all constructive questions/commentary, so chime in if you have suggestions or want to know something.**


	2. Falling Rain

It's a bright morning outside when I open my eyes, but I don't want to wake up. Not today. Not for what I know what's coming.

I groggily sit up in my thatch-woven bed as dust illuminates white rays of light coming in through a crack in the wall. It's probably late in the morning – Sage has always let me sleep in for a while on Reaping days in past years, even when he was still able to be Reaped. My father doesn't really care; he shows up, but that's about it.

Cold water feels miserable today as I sponge my body down, trying to get rid of some of the dirt and grime of the district before the 4 o'clock Reaping. I push and pull on the water pump's lever in our closet-sized excuse for a bathroom, tired and exhausted despite a lengthy sleep. I let running water wash over my feet for a few seconds – a luxury, considering cranking out water can be tough sometimes in the summer. When I feel clean enough to pass the cameras that are undoubtedly all over the district by now, I tie my brown hair up in a ponytail, slip on a white undershirt, and take one lengthy look in the mirror.

Two boring blue eyes stare back at me, all the more emphasized with my newly-cleaned face. I've always hated the way they stand out against my tanned skin; it's like they're some sort of anomaly, plastered with color against all the brown of my body.

A knock on the bathroom door jolts me to my senses.

"Skye?" my brother's voice calls in. "Reed's here to see you."

"Hold on!" I protest, quickly wiping remaining sleep from my eyes.

Reed's one of my two closest friends in the district. I've known him since we met in school at the age of six – since then, he's been as good a friend as I can imagine. He's sixteen and thus only has three more Reapings to my four – but with a large family, he also has a _lot_ more tesserae to take out. His chances of being selected to enter the Games – to die, really, considering our district's recent track record – are much higher than my own.

I slip open the bathroom door to see a sandy-haired boy sitting politely in one of the rickety wooden chairs in our main room. He's not the biggest guy ever, and personally, I don't think he'd last all too long in the Games against the strong volunteer tributes – although I'd never tell him that myself. Reed tends to take criticisms a little too personally for my tastes; it's a forgivable fault. We all have them.

"Hi," I wipe my hands on my shirt as I greet him, drying the last of the water off. "You came over?"

"Well…looks that way," he jokes lamely. "You look good."

"I just woke up," I contest. His flattery's well-intentioned, but not sincere. "You're not staying with your brothers before the Reaping?"

"Nah, they don't need me," he waves away my concern before adjusting a flap on his beat-up, rust-colored buttoned shirt. His choice of clothes is just jarring enough to feel strange; his dark brown eyes don't go well with that shirt and his gray slacks. "Parents are already in the fields…guess your dad is, too."

"Yup," I nod. Workers don't get Reaping day off; particularly not field hands. "Do…you want something to eat, or anything? We don't have much."

"No," he rejects my offer. "I bummed some off Shrike when I ran into her earlier."

Shrike's my other best friend in the district, a yellow-haired girl the same age as Reed. Her parents are one of the few landowning families in the district – the "elite," so to speak, of District 9. She's got plenty of food to spare.

I've often thought Reed's serious but kind demeanor would go well with her outgoing personality, but he hasn't taken the bait in my futile attempts to play matchmaker. Shrike's convinced he's interested in _me_, but I'm in no way believing that.

"Alright," I say. "But…it's not like I'm really doing anything for the new couple hours. You're probably gonna be bored."

"Then let's go do something," he suggests bluntly. "What d'you wanna do?"

Great idea, Reed. There are times – many times – where I wish he'd be more assertive. Reed's penchant for always asking for input from Shrike and I can get…grating. I don't mean to paint him as a wimp necessarily, but he could use a dose of confidence.

"Let's go to the Hill," I blandly opine. "I'll bring something to eat. We can stay until an hour before we have to be in the Square."

He's more than happy to take my suggestion. Fifteen minutes later, we're trudging up a sloped, grassy mound in the middle of an open field. I call this place "The Hill," but it's the highest point in District 9. You can see everything from up here, sitting in the tall grasses beneath the two lonely ash trees that offer shade from the sun.

District 9 stretches for miles in every direction around us as we reach the top. Open plains extend seemingly forever, rolling away into the horizon in three directions. The fourth, facing West, is rimmed by rocky peaks far in the distance. Rain clouds gather over their summits, headed this way. They'll be here by the time of the Reaping, and this clear air and these puffy white clouds will be distant memories.

"It's gonna rain," I murmur to no one in particular. I hold an old, half-stale bun stuffed with rat meat in my hand as I gaze off, my stomach growling in protest. Eating street rats is common for virtually everyone in the distance: They're a nuisance, they grow to be the size of cats, and hey – it's meat. Can't complain about that.

Well, maybe a little.

"That'll be great for the Capitol folks," Reed chuckles, taking a bite of a similar concoction. "Not much of an overhang at the Justice Building to hide under."

I feel bad for the two tributes Reaped. Standing in the rain in front of the cameras – looking wet and miserable for all the Capitol to see? That's not an ideal situation to be in.

Of course, it could possibly be _me_ standing there.

_They'll love you in the Capitol!_ a bitter voice snarls sarcastically in my head. _Little vulnerable girl chucked into a meat grinder with trained killers. It's like a sacrificial offering. Maybe your smarts can keep you alive for a few days – unless you get hurled into a snowfield or something. Then you'll die fast. Painless, maybe._ _Maybe not_.

"What do you think about on a day like this?"

I look up. Reed's leaning back in the grass, his brown eyes wandering over the fields around us. Perhaps he's feeling philosophical, or maybe he's fearing being Reaped – but I have to wander what he means.

"Think?" I reply uncertainly. "I just…I dunno, hope I don't get picked."

"I don't," Reed answers his own question. "I don't think. I just 'do.' It's like…like my body knows to get up, dress nice, stand in the square for a while and wait for two kids to be called to die. We can't really 'do' anything else, can we? Just gotta sit and wait…and hope it's not us. That's our life, isn't it?"

"That's kinda depressing," I reply. "I mean…look, couple of years and all of us will be done with Reapings. We can actually live lives we can be happy with. It won't always be this way."

"Won't it?" he counters. "Truthfully? Look out there, Skye. Look at the electric fence keeping us in. Our entire lives are just scripted things; verses of some song someone else made up. We're just actors for the Capitol to play with. Whether that's the kids who get picked today – maybe you or I, how fun – or the rest of us, like our parents. We got stuck in one job for life, and that's it. Maybe you and I will be breaking our backs in the wheat fields; maybe we actually manage to run a shop or something. Who knows, Skye. Who knows."

"Reed," I say, narrowing my eyebrows and giving him a long look. Where does all this come from? He can be a moody person sometimes, but isn't usually the type to dwell on our conditions. "You don't know that. Twenty years from now when you and I are…doing whatever with our lives…we won't even remember all this. Sure, the Hunger Games might still be going on, but that doesn't mean we can't live happily."

"Yeah?" he gives me a strange look, holding it for a second before turning away. "Maybe. You're smarter than me."

His quick dismissal of the conversation – and his rapid descent into deep discussion – has left me feeling awkward. I can't just sit in the silence now.

"I've gotta get changed before the Reaping," I get up, dusting off my pants and shaking grass out of my hair. "I'll…see you at the Square, Reed."

"Yeah," he repeats, not even looking at me. "I'll do that."

I don't know what's gotten into him, but when I do make it down into the Town Square just before 4, I can't find Reed. He's probably avoiding me; something I said must have upset him on the Hill. Great. I stew in my thoughts as I make my way through the procession of other children, past the Capitol attendance-taker drawing blood samples and into the Square. The cameras set up along the gray stone-walled government and commercial buildings look all the more dreary as a light drizzle begins to fall, hitting my head with an irritating beat. It's going to be a long afternoon.

"Skye!" a soprano voice calls me to from the mass of kids in the Square. "You've got blood running down your finger, girl."

I spot Shrike's long blonde locks before I see her face materializing out of the crowd. It's hard to pick people out on Reaping day, with thousands of children between the ages of twelve and eighteen alone in District 9. Shrike's pretty distinctive, however: She's tall for sixteen, hitting at least six feet in height, and her stark yellow hair is hard to miss. So's her personality: While she can be abrasive and quick-tempered, Shrike commanded a leadership ability back in school that I never could. It doesn't help that she's a year older than me, making me feel like the baby of our friendship.

She's also got a much keener sense of fashion than I. Her spotless white dress looks light years better than my boring blue blouse; it probably also cost far more. Ah, what money can buy you…

"Hey," I say, noticing that the finger prick back at the attendance table has opened up a larger wound than I thought. I cup my index finger in my blouse, trying to keep others from noticing the crimson drops coloring my hand. "I, uh…guess the Capitol woman was angry."

"They all are," Shrike mutters. "So boring. They just sit up there on those camera towers, _watching_ us…it's creepy. I just wanna pull one of them off it. At least they have to be out in the rain, too. I hope this lets up soon."

Shrike's a lot more talkative than most of the other kids around us today, huddling in groups and rightfully fearful of what's to come. Of course, her family's relative wealth makes it far less likely that she'll be picked.

"It's not gonna let up," I murmur. "Saw it coming in from the West earlier with Reed."

"Did you talk to him, or something?" she lifts an eyebrow at me. "He was looking all sulky when I said high a few minutes ago. Did he ask you for your heart and you rejected him, or some other lovey thing?"

"No!" I protest. "We're not like that, Shrike, I keep telling you; he was just…a little depressed."

"Ugh," she rolls her eyes. "Let's…oh wait, you have to be in the fifteen section. I keep forgetting."

"Thanks," I grunt. "I'll…see you after this is done."

"Well, the odds will be _ever_ in our _favor_," Shrike chimes in as she leaves for the older girls' cordoned-off group.

She's a good friend, but on days like this, sometimes one just needs to be alone.

I trudge over to the roped-off area for fifteen year-old girls like me, standing between a group of chattering, crying girls I don't know. The scarlet-and-gold Capitol flags draped over the three-story Justice Hall add an ugly patriotic cheer to the scene. They contrast horribly with the dull gray of the Square, and the rumbling skies overhead do nothing to make the day any more pleasant. I cross my arms, disgruntled, and welcome the start of the show.

Our mayor – a forgettable man named Lincoln – walks slowly out on stage first, his head down. He's old, somewhere in his sixties, and clearly isn't happy with his role as _de jure_ leader of the district. Every time I see him in public, he looks like he wants to do nothing besides die. He has no family, and being the receiving end of the Capitol's orders can't be fun.

The next two guests on stage are far more interesting. A wild-haired woman with a bony face tromps up on stage, her gray eyes sweeping over us in a foul manner. Selene, one half of the mentor combo, can't be accused of being overly optimistic on a day like this, that's for sure. She wears nothing but a short pair of denim shorts and a shirt that barely covers her midriffs, leaving her well-toned body fully visible to all of us in the audience. She gulps down something from her hand - pain pills, according to my father and his sources – and takes a seat next to Mayor Lincoln, looking like nothing would please her more than killing all of us herself.

Omaha, our other mentor, couldn't be any more her opposite. While his attire could be improved – the ripped blue shirt and black pants he wears look like they haven't been washed in ages, and his black hair's matted down on his squarish face – he looks right pleasant today. Sage, who has a friend who met Omaha in person, says the victor of the 75th Games is quite a nice guy in person – albeit a bit strange. Supposedly he's far smarter than he looks; if it worked to win, then I suppose it's alright.

Finally the star of the show arrives – our strange and out-of-the-ordinary Capitol escort, Cicero. Watching previous Reapings on television has always taught me that escorts are traditionally eccentric and fashion-focused people, but Cicero's anything but. He speaks in a strong manner, like he's instructing a class full of students, and I'm convinced he actually believes everything he says. To him, it's as if the Games aren't entertainment but a judgment of one's character and pride.

He also doesn't dress like a complete lunatic. I may think Cicero's all-white formal attire is a bit much – particularly with his dark brown hair providing a bizarre contrast – but he doesn't have any of the strange skin alterations or freakish clothing of other Capitol citizens I've seen during airing of past Games. Either District 9's lucked out, or it was rewarded with a horrible choice for escort.

Considering our disastrous record since Selene won back in the 83rd Games, it seems like the latter is more spot-on.

"Welcome," Cicero says into the microphone on the creaky wooden stage, puffing up his chest and setting his jaw. He lets his one-word greeting hang in the air as his shiny, electric-blue eyes scan the crowd for a moment before continuing. "I'd like to thank the past tributes of District 9 for their fight in the prior Games, and I'm sure we'll have a pair of strapping tributes this year to compete for district honor and glory. And before I forget – may the odds be _ever_ in your favor."

It's as if he doesn't even want to speak that infamous line. Something's off about Cicero; I wonder whether or not he chose the wrong profession.

"I've got a short video from the Capitol to show you," he plows on through his speech, pointing towards the massive video screen to his right. "Please – take a minute to reacquaint yourselves for just _why_ we hold these Games."

Is he angry about getting District 9? Overly proud of the Capitol? I have no idea whether he's enthusiastic or bitter, leaving my thoughts to wander as the same-old, same-old plays on the screen. Useless banter about "a motherless child" and "one young man and woman" blathers out from speakers arranged around the Square, inundating us with Capitol propaganda.

I wonder if Cicero could give us a better speech on the "merits" of the Games.

"Now," Cicero holds up an index finger above his head as the video finishes. "It is the time you all should feel pride in. We select a single lady to compete for District 9 – to _win_ for District 9, we all hope – in the 98th Hunger Games. It is all the solemn duty of citizens of the district to cheer on their tributes – and we should celebrate, not mourn for, she who is chosen."

Selene spits a wad of something black on the stage behind him, and I can't make out just what her lips said. No doubt it was profane; supposedly, her view of the Games isn't anywhere near as patriotic as Cicero's.

Now, however, it's time. Time to worry – time to stress and fret. Cicero's nimble fingers could easily flit into that clear, glass Reaping bowl and pick out my name – a white paper slip with "Skye Holdrege" written cleanly in blue. If it's me, will I cry? Will I stand here, transfixed to my spot? Will I even be able to get to the stage?

Cicero doesn't let his hand wander, slipping his fingers into the bowl and quickly snapping up a name from the middle of the pile of slips. He walks slowly, firmly, back to the microphone, his shoulders never even moving in his stride.

The rain picks up as he unrolls the slip. I can feel a drop – or is that sweat? – rolling down my face, catching the corner of my left eye. I try to blink away the water, shaking my head in frustration. My gut's rolling in agony and anxiety, demanding Cicero relieve me of this tension – just _announce!_ Don't leave us all writhing, fearing that it may be us!

And announce he does, clearing me from any anxiety. I don't have to wait and wonder which girl will be picked from District 9 this year.

It's Skye Holdrege. Me.


	3. The Last Goodbye

People say you feel a lot of things when death stares you in the face. Your life flashing before your eyes, perhaps…maybe faces of people you loved spinning around you, or places you cherish from your childhood. I didn't feel any of those things; thought nothing of my happier moments.

Instead, I stood there like a statue – without thought or movement.

A ringing started up in my ears as I heard Cicero's voice calling out: "Skye? Skye Holdrege?"

I feel a push on my shoulder, and girls around me have started to back away. Too late now: I need to get moving. I'm dismayed by this turn of events – frightened, scared – but they're all just thoughts. My brain is swimming in an ashen sea, crawling through muddy muck and unable to process anything but the gray storm clouds and stony Justice Hall before me. I numbly feel a drop of rain running down the inside of my nose, narrowly avoiding my eye and spilling down my lip.

"There you are," Cicero's seen me. "Stand tall. Have pride in your district – come up so we all can see you."

_Pride?!_ He has no idea – _no idea_ – what I'm going through. A surge of emotion hits me, and it takes all my will not to double over with nausea. Oh God. He called my name, didn't he? He called it. Wants me to come up – wants me to step up in front of everyone and hold my head up, ready to die. I can't. Can't do it – can't die now. What about the life I wanted to live? What about what I was telling Reed earlier, on the Hill – the life we can make out of all this misery? Why am I chosen for this?

I can't bear to look back at the two sixteen year-old sections. I know Reed will be looking at me, stern-faced and solemn, as if to say _I told you this life is useless. _Shrike will already be a mess.

A Peacekeeper puts a hand on me, jarring me into action. I plant one foot in front of the other, stepping right into a muddy puddle and ignoring the wetness that infects my sock.

The rain's picking up.

I trudge the fifty meters or so past a thousand pairs of staring eyes, careful not to look into any one of them. I'm barely hanging on to my sense of control right now as it is; I can't think about what would happen if someone called out to me, or I caught a friend bursting into tears. There'll be time for that later – when I'm not in front of the cameras.

Not like it'll matter. We all know my chances are not good; the odds aren't in my favor.

_Thump._ I place my right foot on the first granite step to the stage platform, my eyes staring down at the ground. Cicero's somewhere above me, beckoning me to come join him at the microphone, but I'm in no hurry to make myself known. This isn't what I wanted.

_Thump. Thump_. Two steps. Three. Our district's escort – _my_ escort – grabs my hand, pulling me up to the stage and leading me to the microphone like a cow to slaughter. I'm beyond thinking at this point as he announces me to the Capitol audience.

"Let's have a round of applause, shall we?" Cicero asks District 9.

He's answered by a crack of lightning across the sky, illuminating ten million raindrops on their suicidal charge towards the ground. I can see myself in each of them – barreling towards a fate I don't quite understand but dread, unable to stop my fall as I plunge into the abyss.

"For our gentlemen," Cicero continues the show, pushing me behind him as he does so.

I look back with forlorn eyes at the two people who will be my mentors. Selene doesn't bother to look at me; she's busy chewing something viscous between her teeth. Omaha's her opposite: His eyes stare like beacons into my own, unwavering, unmoving. He sees something – whether it's good or bad, I don't know. That man's seen a lot of his tributes die; seen a lot of connections and relationships cut off at the end of a sword, arrow, or spear. I can't imagine he's thinking much differently about the chances of the meek fifteen year-old girl in front of him now.

I haven't even noticed Cicero digging around the boys' bowl, but he's got another slip up and ready. Before I can silently whisper a hope that Reed isn't picked, my new escort delivers the verdict: "Ames Sioux!"

A square shape slithers out of the seventeen year-old section, and I'm introduced to a tribute with much better chances of coming home than I.

Ames isn't a particularly tall kid – he's only about as tall as I am, and I'm 5'5" or so – but he's built like a rhinoceros. From shoulders to waist, my fellow tribute looks like a single slab of meat. His heavy-set jaw and thick, ink-black hair only complement his big-boned stature, and his arms aren't indicative of a slouch either. His lower body isn't as well-built, with legs that look like they won't be able to outrun a faster volunteer tribute from the likes of District 1 or 2. Nonetheless, I question whether or not a direct hit from a spear or sword is even going to touch him, with all that build up top.

He makes me nervous – and it's not just his shape. That look in his eyes; that gaze that tells of someone with little to live for and nothing to lose – it's the mark of a man indifferent to killing.

Ames tromps up the steps with little emotion weakly taking and dropping Cicero's hand before waddling up next to me. He doesn't even bother to make eye contact until our escort orders us to shake, giving me the faintest of glances before staring off into space. I'm starting to wonder whether there's even anything under all that muscle and sinew, and I'm not just talking about brains.

"Our tributes, District 9," Cicero stands before us like some sort of twisted ringmaster, raising his hands in premature celebration. "This year, perhaps, they'll bring him a winner."

_Very poor wording, Cicero_, I think. "Perhaps." That's convincing.

I don't get time to dwell as two burly Peacekeepers shove Ames and I through the Justice Hall's heavy oak doors. I steal one last glance out onto District 9 – catching the thousands of eyes still staring at the two of us, saying all too many silent goodbyes – before the doors close with a heavy _thud_.

Alone. Alone, alone – I'm alone as the Peacekeeper shuts me into an ornate room decorated with red, smooth furniture. Pictures of places I can't put a name on – lands from history, perhaps, or other districts I'll never see – stare back at me from mahogany walls.

A small pool of water's forming around my feet, dripping off of my hair and clothes. The room's cold – some sort of central air conditioning or something, like at the school and shops in town. I clutch my arms and sit down on a couch, huddling as tightly as I can to conserve body heat. It's nice and warm outside, but with the temperature differential, the windows have fogged over. I can't even see District 9 anymore; even when I wipe away the glaze from the window, all that confronts me is the pounding rain and occasional flash of lightning.

How fitting.

I hear a "_Damn, it's freezing in here_," from the other side of the door, followed by the Peacekeeper's announcement of a three minute allotment. Before I know it, my first two guests are here.

"How can you think about – " Shrike's in the process of yelling at Reed when she spots me. She's already beyond a mess: Her eyes are as red as a sunrise, and her long blonde hair's all out of sorts from the rain. Seeing me huddled up on the couch doesn't do anything to ease her frantic state.

"Oh God, Skye," Shrike panics and runs over to the couch, standing in front of me and hesitating on whether she should sit down or keep her distance. "I'm sorry…I…don't know what to say."

_Why am I the one who has to compose herself?_ "It's okay," I stand up and pull Shrike into a hug, burying my face in her shoulder. She proceeds to unleash a torrent of tears down my hair, my second shower of the day – _good thing it's not her in the Games. Actually, the Capitol might be weird enough to like this. Take notes, Skye._

"Well," Reed finally speaks up as he watches Shrike and I. "Look, Skye…you're a quick learner. Learn what you can; figure out how to use a weapon and kill somebody. That big guy over there – he's nothing to the Capitol, but you can be. You're likeable; just show 'em how."

"That's specific," I critique. "I'm just a kid from District 9, Reed. I'm not some girl who's been trained all her life for this like they are in District 4 or 2 or something."

"So show them you're still human," he shrugs. "Those meaty kids? They're not. You can be – you can be the thing they want to see. Then show them you're willing to take victory, too."

"How am I supposed to kill somebody?" I yell at him, growing hysterical. His cool-headedness can be a great asset, but not when I'm barely keeping my wits about me. "The most I've ever killed is a street rat or a bug. I can't go talk to another kid and then stab them! That's…that's…"

"That's called being a Victor," he finishes.

"Reed! Please!" Shrike cuts him off. "Skye, okay – he's right that you can make the Capitol love you; you've done it with us…"

_That's because you're my friends,_ I think. Likability is _not_ one of my stronger suits, and I have my doubts on whether or not the Capitol's going to give an iota about some anxious fifteen year-old from a wayward district. Still, better not tell Shrike that.

"I will," I lie to her, faking a smile. "Love you, Shrike."

She grabs my tightly as the Peacekeeper barges into the room, peeling her off of me. Shrike elicits a squeak of discomfort as Reed grabs my shoulder, his eyes boring into mine for a split second.

"Do what you have to," he tells me firmly. "Don't let anything else get in the way. I'll be waiting for you here."

Just like that, three minutes are up and they're gone.

The sound of frenetic arguing comes in through the door, but it's not either of my friends. It's someone from Ames's room, and it's so loud that I can just make out the words:

"_Kill her. Kill all of them. They're not people anymore."_

I slump back down onto my couch. Is that what we all are in the Games? No longer people, no longer children – but just numbers to be run over and gored? It's the same thing Reed was getting at: _Don't let anything else get in the way_.

By "anything," I'm assuming he's referring to my conscience. Unfortunately, I don't know if I can do that. I've never had to do that – never had to make these kinds of black-and-white decisions; who lives, who dies.

It's all so simple when it's just numbers. It's not so simple when it's faces and families.

The door opens again – _blasts_ open – as my brother barges in, slamming the door behind him. He's a sopping heap of dirty clothes and matted hair, soaked while waiting for his turn to give me a last goodbye. I'm thankful he's here; I don't know how long I can hold my feelings in anymore.

"Sage," I choke up as my eyes start to flood. "I…dunno what I'm doing…"

"Hey, sis," he grabs my arm, pulling me up and into a hug. I can't hang on and proceed to cry all over his wet shirt, silently cursing myself for losing my composure like this. It's excusable in the eyes of the world – it is the Hunger Games, after all, and I have a darn good chance of ending up dead soon – but it's not okay in _my_ eyes. Not for me. Not when I have to be strong to survive.

"I'm not gonna let you go until they force me out," Sage re-assures me before continuing, patting me on the back for good measure. "Things are grim but you can come back. I _expect_ you to come back."

"How?" I whine into his chest. "I can't do any of the – "

"Shh," he silences me. "Make a few friends while you're there. It'll make the crowds like you more, and you'll have a better chance at making the later rounds inside the arena. When you have a chance to do something to help yourself – _do it_. Things are gonna hurt; you're gonna feel bad. Everyone does in this kind of thing. Everyone wants to go home…but I want that to be _you_."

I throw aside all pretenses of being strong and open up to my brother in what may be the last time I see him: "I'm scared, Sage. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I don't know how to win; how to kill someone, how to deal with all the…the guilt, if I _do _win…"

"One step at a time, Skye," he pulls me closer. "First, you're gonna get on that train. Next, you'll listen to what your mentors have to say and teach you. Little by little, that'll grow until the last step – you getting _off_ that train back here in District 9. You'll be alright, sis. You'll come home."

Before we have a chance to do anything more, the Peacekeeper's back. I clutch Sage as hard as I can, but it's no use: The white-armored, silent man yanks my brother from my arms and forces him back towards the door. My heart races: I don't want to lose him.

"Sage!" I yell futilely. "Wait! Don't go!"

"I'll be waiting when you come back, Skye!" he calls, slowly backing into the doorway at the Peacekeeper's shoves. "I love you! Come back!"

That's it. That's all I get, with the slamming of the door leaving me alone again.

Alone. Alone, alone alone…

Nobody else comes to see me – not any other children my age, not any adults I know – not even my father, who I figure isn't able to summon the courage to tell a daughter he never sees goodbye. I'm not too distressed by that; we wouldn't have anything to talk about, anyway.

The loneliness kills me over the next hour, however. Here, alone, in my room…surrounded by the trappings of wealth and fancy garnishes, I feel poorer than I've ever been.

Without a sound, I curl up on the wet, dirty floor, wrap my arms around my knees, and cry.


	4. Alien

District 9 has disappeared into nothingness as I stare out the window of this sleek silver beast. My home is gone – maybe never to be seen again.

The Peacekeepers had hurried Ames and I from the Justice Hall after our requisite hour of farewells ended, hustling us past a gaggle of cameras and reporters waiting at the train station. I could barely keep my composure as we were herded onto the train like two cows headed to the slaughterhouse, ogled at by a press seeking blood. How am I supposed to look tough and strong in front of that? In comparison to Ames – who kept up his bored, nonchalant expression the entire time – I must seem weak already.

Coming aboard the train shocked me in an entirely different way, however. I've never seen such ornate décor: With silver-glazed tables and stands, crystal light fixtures, and chrome window sills, it's as if I've been transported to some alien land. I'm not in awe, however; I'm almost _angry_ by this display of extravagance. Is this what the Capitol spends all its time building while poor children suffer in the district? Is this what they do while Reed and I submit our names for tesserae, while most families are happy to have food, shelter, and enough clothing for their kids?

It's sick.

I push away from the window as the last vestiges of District 9 fade away into the distance, with the train picking up speed. Green and golden fields of long grasses rush by at incredible speed – much faster than any animal I've ever witnesses. I've seen the trains before, of course – coming through to pick up wheat or soy deliveries, or dropping off Peacekeepers, but actually _riding_ one is something else entirely.

"Is it _that_ crazy?"

A thick, airy voice from behind me makes my skin crawl. I turn to find Ames's dead eyes looking straight at me, sizing me up as he leans back in one of the lounge's blue plush chairs. Cicero's left the two of us alone, and neither Selene nor Omaha has bothered to show up yet. I'm on my own with this boy…this tribute that I'm supposed to kill.

"It's new," I offer innocently enough. _Make friends_ – that's what Sage had said; maybe I can start with my district partner. "You don't find it…different?"

Ames scoffs: "Doesn't really matter what I find it."

Guess I'd better change my approach: "Um…Ames, right? Did you…have anybody close say good-bye?"

He regards me with a chilly stare, his expression ranking me somewhere between a rat and a speck of dust: "Nobody important. Not enough to make me cry a river like you."

_Great_. That was a bad question to ask; of _course_ he probably had people close to him. Now I've just upset him – and making friends with my fellow tribute from District 9 seems a whole lot harder. _Good job, Skye; you're helping out your situation immensely!_

I turn back to the window, watching the plains wind past the glass in a blur. I wish I could just jump out this window right now – escape into these fields rushing by, get lost forever and make everyone else forget about me. No Hunger Games, no loss…just the open prairie and I.

A loud _bang!_ startles me as the sliding chrome door to the next car is thrown open. Selene, dressed down into a ripped white shirt that only marginally covers her assets, wanders in, carrying a wad of something pink and gummy and looking quite amused.

"Well, you two are screwed," Selene takes a bite of the…_thing_…in her hand, chewing slowly and with purpose. She looks at the chandelier in the middle of the lounge car with distaste – clearly, opulence and her don't go together. "Volunteer tributes from 1 and 2 are gonna wipe everyone out again like last year."

I blanche, making Ames laugh at my expression. _Thanks for the support, district partner. I happen to be scared of an untimely death._

"That's helpful," Ames sarcastically remarks in response to Selene.

"I suppose I should change the way I say that," she shrugs. "Everyone else is tiny, and the moment you enter the arena, they'll all commit suicide. You two will immediately be the last ones left, and have a staring contest to decide the winner. Everyone goes home happy, and I puke up rainbows. Is that what you'd rather hear? Because I'm trying to be honest."

Ames looks annoyed as he retorts, "So what would you have me do? Just sit on my ass and die?"

"Well, if you want to die…" Selene smirks. "Or you could man up, unlike the last…what, thirty or so?...tributes who've died under me, and actually win. I'm just saying you have your work cut out for you. If you don't like that, you won't have a chance in Hell."

"Where's Cicero?" Ames grunts, accepting Selene's commentary. "And that other guy?"

"Hopefully Cicero's dead in a ditch," our mentor replies frankly, spitting a wad of the pink stuff on the floor. "I hate that self-righteous bastard, always gassing on about 'laws' and shit. As for Omaha…I have no idea, but I wouldn't expect him until breakfast tomorrow. He's a quieter guy."

Selene looks right at me, sizing me up for a minute before continuing, "You. Whatever your name is…you've just stood there like a mouse. Are you gonna cry again? That wasn't helping my job at all. Only a few of the Capitol people like the 'cute and crying' type, and they're usually not the kind who spends big money on sponsorships."

I pull away: Selene hasn't made the best impression on me. Frankly, it seems she'd rather leave me to the dogs and take her chances with Ames. _At least _try_ to get the mentors on your side, Skye!_

"What do you want me to do?" I ask quietly, afraid of pushing any of her buttons.

"I don't know," Selene throws up her hands. "Too many questions. I don't even know you two kids yet. Tell you what, girl – what's your name?"

"Skye," I mutter.

"Skye. Okay," she turns away, shoving a bit more of the pink glob in her mouth and chewing it methodically. "And Ames. I got your name. You want to know everything? You want to know how you have a chance against that snakelike girl from District 2 I saw on the tv a few minutes ago? Then tell me who you are. Who are you?"

"I'm just…a girl…" I stammer, much to Selene's displeasure.

"That sucks," she dismisses me. "Alright, boy. Who are you? What do you do? Why should I like you, if I'm your average Cicero the Repugnant on the streets of the Capitol?"

Ames laughs derisively: "I don't really care if they like me."

"_Thank you_," Selene sighs. "Somebody knows who they are, even if it's 'I'm apathetic.' I can work with apathetic. I'm done for now – dinner's in fifteen in the car I just came out of. Try not to butcher each other before then."

Selene stalks out of the room, looking more than a little disgruntled. I can already tell I'm not the kind of tribute she wanted. I'm not angry or aggressive, not bloodthirsty or a giant. Nor am I the seductive and sexy girl that routinely prances out of District 1 – the type who wins sponsorships by the dozens from rich old men in the Capitol. I'm not of these things; I'm no superlative. I'm just a girl from District 9 who wants to escape with her life. Is that not enough?

"What d'you think she's chewing on?" I ask absent-mindedly.

Ames gives me an irritated stare: "You talking to me?"

"I guess not," I sigh.

Dinner's a one-sided affair. Cicero goes on and on about the history of the Games, how the Capitol views them, and how we should be proud of representing our district. He's not the normal kind of escort I've seen for other districts – the dyed-skin-and-colored-hair type who can't stop gabbing about fashion – but he's no less aggravating. It's clear Cicero doesn't have an idea of what I'm going through as my gut churns. He doesn't understand the anxiety of trying to find a way out of a worsening situation that's turning all too many people against me.

I try to lose myself in the food and forget about the others. The many dishes piled before me on the table are enticing, to say the least – dotted with salted fish, flavored meats, skewered exotic vegetables, and too many kinds of fruits that I've never dreamed of tasting. My stomach nearly revolts at the cornucopia of new things I'm trying.

_Cornucopia. Ha. Using arena jokes already, Skye._

What little hope I have left dissolves as the Reaping recap arrives.

The familiar jovial, smiling face of Corinth Terence – the host of the Hunger Games for the last five years since the retirement of old Caesar Flickerman – pops onto the television screen in the dining car. Corinth lacks the gaudy suits of Caesar, but his bright orange hair – and tangerine-and-white outfit – make up quite the gaudy Capitol outfit.

"I preferred Caesar's enthusiasm," Cicero remarks. "But Corinth is a good man. Perhaps a little vanilla."

Selene mutters something under her breath at that.

"If you've missed the Reapings today – first, _what have you been doing?_" Corinth laughs at his boring joke, his stark-white teeth shining in the camera lights. "But we'll give you a chance to see them all tonight – _every_ last one of them – and you'll meet _your_ tributes from every district, Panem. Let's get this ball rolling!"

The recaps of District 1, 2, and 4 introduce me to the six tributes most likely to end my life in the arena – and they're no slouches. The three males are sliced perfectly from the mold of classic volunteer tributes: District 1's Cobalt, bathed in a silky, tan skin and a head of long silver hair – looks as if he'll gladly shake your hand while knifing you in the back. His pale eyes dance dangerously before the camera, appraising it with all the sincerity of a poisonous spider.

District 2 and 4 offer up much different boys. District 2's Sulla is a brutish, chimpanzee-like _thing_ with black hair and bulging calves. He's barely taller than Ames and I, but his bounding, lighting steps up to the announcing platform tell me who he is: He's a physical specimen, bred with a sprinter's speed and agility that'll make him a devastating force on open ground, particularly at the Cornucopia. District 4's boy, Mako, is a block of iron. He pairs muscles with a head of dirty blonde hair and two bright brown eyes – he'll be a thing for the Capitol sponsors to fight over.

Not like the girls from the volunteer districts are much better. District 1 and 4 each offer forth attractive, seductive young woman with flowing brown hair – Crystal and Coral, respectively. Like Selene said, however, it's District 2's girl that looks the most dangerous out of this batch. Tethys, a girl of just fifteen, is wiry and powerful. She slithers up to the platform in stony, gray District 2 with the grace of a serpent, her eyes yellow and beady. She's tall, lengthy, and not someone I'd like to meet face-to-face in a fight. Something about her reminds me of poison.

"Marvelous," Cicero comments on Tethys, as if he'd like to personally escort her himself. "She is really the ideal of what a tribute should be, you see – proud of where she's from, ready to die for the honor of protecting her district's sanctity. That's what the Games are all about: True patriotism."

"Also death," Selene adds sardonically while stabbing a leg of meat with her knife. "Lots of that, particularly the gory kind. The best patriots I know are the ones leaking brain juice on the ground."

The rest of the field doesn't make much of an impact on me, with few exceptions. An awkward-looking boy out of District 3, Lattice, shakily steps up, with his blank gaze, unkempt red hair and emotionless reaction telling me that he's thinking of other things. Who loses track of their thoughts when Reaped?

"What's with the weird guy?" Ames asks in reaction to Lattice's introduction. "Looks like he'll get killed a minute into the thing."

"So you overlook him; he'll probably electrocute you while you sleep," Selene scoffs with a grin. "It's the quiet ones who are the most dangerous. Apart from the hulking monstrosities, of course."

I look at her disapprovingly. If the quiet ones are so deadly, why does she act like I'm already a dead girl? Did I upset her somehow – by being quiet when we were introduced?

Can _something_ go right?

District 7 offers up an interesting pair: A well-muscled boy of eighteen, Sumac, who looks competitive with a sheen of bright blonde hair, but immediately breaks down into a sea of tears when called upon. I'm stupefied by his response – he looks like he could actually win! Why despair when you have a chance?

He looks even worse by comparison when his companion – a girl my age with soft, brown hair and cool, pine-green eyes named Autumn – walks forward without the slightest bit of misgiving. She's stoic and quiet next to his emotional turmoil, all while appearances say he could crush her like a bug if he so wanted to.

Perhaps appearances are deceiving.

The rest of the field isn't very memorable. District 10 produces a twelve year-old girl, Abilene, who has _no_ chance at all, while District 11 and District 12 each give up weak, slender boys and girls who'll pad the kill count of the volunteers. I shudder: District 9's a poor district, but even we have better fortunes than those end-of-the-line places on the wayward corners of Panem. They rarely, if ever, win.

"When was the last guy who even won from District 12?" Ames asks in between mouthfuls of food. "They are always bad."

"Haymitch," Selene mutters. "He's in his sixties. I feel bad for the guy, really. You all are bad enough, giving me…what, fourteen years now since I won?"

I'm not thinking about District 12, however. I'm thinking about my appearance on the tv screen – a hesitant, weak girl about half the size of the big guys from Districts 2 and 4, forced towards the stage by Peacekeepers and looking as if she'd rather be anywhere else. I look awful; my performance is terrible. If the Hunger Games _are_ really about getting people to like you – like Reed told me in the Justice Hall; like Selene has indicated – then I'm off to a really, _really_ bad start. I look no better than those kids from Districts 11 and 12.

I push away from the table, disgusted with myself.

"I'm…gonna go to bed," I mumble, averting my gaze so I don't have to see the eyes fixed on me. "It's…big day tomorrow, right? And stuff."

Ames laughs snidely – he can feel that I'm not doing well. The tension's dripping off of me in waves.

"Oh, you'll miss the after-recap special," Cicero chides. "It's a great monument to the legacy of – "

"_Please_ stop," Selene bangs an elbow on the table and swears violently. "Please."

I retreat before more damage can be done. Ames is after my blood; Cicero thinks I'm a poor excuse for a tribute, and Selene thinks I'm pathetic. Great. Sage would be verbally assaulting me right now: "_I told you to make some friends, Skye! Are you even thinking? You're gonna get yourself killed!"_

I'm sorry, Sage. I'm just not good at this thing.

I climb into the first empty cabin I can find, slamming the door shut and clicking the lock. I turn out every light except for the sunset outside, letting the scarlet-and-gold rays illuminate my room in a beautiful aura. Even that can't cheer me up: I'm in an alien land, surrounded by things I can't understand, forced to fight people I don't know who want nothing more than to go back to their families. To do so, they'll have to fight me and kill me. The odds aren't in my favor. They never were.

The setting sun pulls the anger out of me, and I'm left with only my exhaustion. Sitting with my back against the door, I rest my head against one of these foreign walls, give a weak sigh, and let sleep slowly overtake me.

At least I can still escape into sleep.


	5. Omaha

**Author's Note: Thanks for all the readership, everyone! If you have feedback, suggestions, commentary, or ideas, I'm always welcoming of reviews!**

* * *

My eyes flutter in the darkness, my heart pounding with rushing blood. Blackness – inky black all around me; am I safe? Am I in the arena?

_Relax, Skye. You're getting ahead of yourself_.

I'm too twitchy; too nervous. The Games aren't for another week – I haven't even been gone from District 9 for a day! – and already I'm cautious. Nothing's going to kill me on the train.

The train shudders, jerks. We must have stopped or something, as the train's pulling out of a station slowly. Fuel, maybe – or whatever these things run on. I pull myself off the ground, reaching a hand out to the wall to stabilize myself as I peer out my cabin's window.

It's pitch black outside. With a new moon, only the starry dots of the night sky and the faint, fluid ribbon of the Milky Way illuminate the black fields we're racing past. I can hardly make out anything except for hills in the far distance – rising, rolling, criss-crossing the terrain like herds of giant beasts at rest.

Already I regret falling asleep so early. It's the middle of the night now and I won't be able to fall back asleep; no doubt everyone else on the train has long since gone to bed. Tomorrow will be bad enough as it is, but heading into the Capitol on little rest – that'll make it worse.

I stumble around in the darkness for a light switch, finally finding one and nearly blinding myself with bright white illumination. The bedroom cabin is soft and restrained compared to the rest of the train: A plush crimson bed awaits one who'll never sleep it in, while a sturdy velvet chair invites me to sit down upon its cushion and let out my exhaustion. I don't want to do either, however; I don't want to sit in this animal pen, awaiting my shipment to the place where I'll likely die. I need to be free.

Slipping off the casual clothes I changed into before dinner, I rummage around in a wide, expansive closet until I find a suitable violet night gown of my liking. It's soft and caressing on my skin, comforting me when I need it most. At least the Capitol knows how to make good clothes.

The train car's hallway is just as dark as outside when I step out of my cabin. It's as quiet as a tomb in here – fitting, considering Ames and I's chances in this thing.

I wander down the hall, stubbing my bare feet on an exposed piece of carpeting at one point and grimacing in pain. I can hear Selene mumbling in her sleep as I slip from one car to the next – probably curses and swears about the Capitol, knowing her. I'm hoping our interaction during the training sessions ahead will be minimal, but knowing my terrible luck, she'll probably be assigned to watch over me or something. At least our relationship can't get any _worse_…probably.

After passing through four straight sleeping cars – all of them quiet, dark, and forbidding – I finally reach the door to the last car. I don't know what's hear, but I figure I might as well explore. I'll never get another chance to do this again.

I push open the glass door to the carriage, slipping out of the sleeper car and into something else entirely.

It feels as if I've left the train. Glass surrounds me on all sides, curling up and around like a giant, elongated bubble. Lounge couches and chairs scatter a muted brown floor, giving observers a chance to lay down and watch the scenery flash by. It's a far more breathtaking sight than merely watching out of a window could give me: In here, it feels like _I'm_ the one moving at high speeds. _I_ am the one running past those beast-like hills in the far darkness, sprinting across these foreign plains.

And I'm not alone.

A dark, gaunt figure lies stretched across a couch, face-up towards the dark, starry night above. He's still as a statue, flinching just a fraction of an inch as I open the door to the observation car. Clearly he's not asleep – while the figure doesn't move, his chest doesn't rise and fall in the tell-tale sign of someone lost in their dreams. He's awake – awake and embracing his loneliness.

"I'm sorry," I mutter, moving to leave. No reason to bother him.

"Don't," a placid, airy voice greets me. "Join me. Please."

I wander forward tentatively, careful to keep my distance from the prone figure on the dark couch. He knows I'm there but he never looks up – not once. I sit on an adjacent chair, curling my knees to my chest and facing towards the rear of the train as it picks up speed.

"It's I who should apologize," the man on the couch says, his words measured and deliberate. "I left to be alone for supper and last night. I'm sure the adjustment period has been hard on you."

"A bit," I reply modestly. "You're…Omaha, right?"

"That is my name, Skye."

Something about him touches me. Perhaps it's the politeness in which he speaks; selecting each syllable with a slow and meandering pacing. It's not at all similar to the bombastic chest-beating of Cicero or the snide aggression of Selene; my male mentor is…soft, almost. It's not what I'd expect out of a Victor.

Plus, the fact that he remembered my name sure helps. Selene couldn't do the same.

"So…" I question hesitantly. "Are you…gonna be training Ames, then?"

"No. I always train the girl," Omaha muses, keeping his shadow-covered face staring up at the star-studded canopy. "My mentor trained the boys. Selene took over when he retired, and it's been that way ever since. I believe she prefers it."

At least something's going right. I'm far more relaxed around Omaha – even after just meeting him. Training with Selene would likely end in her dismembering me for being quiet, too passive, or something else on her hit list.

"Why?" I ask.

"Selene enjoys the fight," he murmurs quietly. "She was that way when I first met her. It helped her win the Games; it helped her cope with their aftermath. It's who she is."

I have to ask: "What's that stuff she keeps chewing on?"

Omaha chuckles softly, crossing his arms across his chest: "Painkiller. It's the high-tech kind the Capitol makes; she wouldn't tell you herself that she prefers a Capitol product, no matter how mundane. I believe her…distaste…for them keeps her focused."

"You don't…dislike them?" I question. "The Capitol?"

"One too many questions," he interjects, firmly but without any sort of emotion. "Let me ask you a simple one. Are you feeling alright?"

I look at him with a furrowed brow. He's my mentor – why does he want to know how I feel? Aren't they supposed to train us on how to fight and survive – not on what we're feeling?

"Yeah," I lie. "Why?"

"You're not," he sees right through my fib without as much as a turn of his head. "I know you're confused right now. You've no doubt seen the other children you'll have to compete against – maybe kill. Understand this, Skye…for the rest of your life, whether that's a week or eighty years, you can't just shove those thoughts aside now that you're in the Hunger Games. What you're feeling is tremendously important to my being able to mentor you. That's why I want to know."

"It doesn't matter," I feel angry. Omaha's a Victor; why's he getting all sentimental and stuff? I need answers on how to live; how to find food, how to keep myself away from dangers. I don't need to know how to sort out my head. "It's the Hunger Games. I need to know how to…how to have a chance. I don't care if I don't feel good."

"Really?" he lets the question hang in the air. "Interesting. Go on."

_What_? "I…don't have any more to go on with."

"Why do you think volunteers from District 1, 2, and 4 ever lose, Skye?"

"Well…" I stumble. What's he getting at? "They…get…trapped, or killed by mutts, or the Gamesmakers, or each other. That's what's happened the last few Games."

"I admit; they're on a good streak," Omaha replies grudgingly. "Is that really why they're killed? Because Gamesmakers try to kill them with mutts? They try to kill their best physical competitors – the ones the audience swoons over? That's a terrible way to entertain a fickle fan base, Skye."

"I don't know!" I answer, frustrated.

"Forgive me. I don't mean to upset you," he sits up, his shadowy black form looking all the more dangerous as he loops an arm over the back of his couch. "Volunteer tributes are exceptionally good at performing with their bodies and their instincts – their training. They lose because they don't know how to use their minds. The brutes you see in past Games, raging in anger only to misstep and be killed? They're letting their anger and their minds influence their actions. In turn, it kills them. They never understood how to use that anger to help them, rather than hinder them. So tell me, so I can help you – how are you feeling?"

I'm hesitant. I rarely open up to people I don't know well – particularly one like Ohama, who I'll have to entrust with my survival ability in the arena. Does he really need to know every last bit of fear and anxiety churning like a boat through my stomach?

"I don't think I really have a chance," I reply meekly. "And I don't think the others like me very much."

"I can't help you with Ames," he answers bluntly. "But Selene requires patience. Listen, rather than pushing her away. She's an outstanding resource; opinionated, strong-willed…and, when you breach her shell, supportive. As for Cicero…he went blind a long time ago."

"He's _blind_?"

"Not in eyesight. In beliefs…the Capitol's word is his law. He doesn't think for himself, but quotes talking points of the politicians. Take his instructions with skepticism. But as you…is there a reason you don't believe you can win?"

"I'm just a…a fifteen year-old normal girl who's supposed to kill a bunch of other kids," I bemoan, waving my hands in front of my face. "I don't know how to do that. I don't know how to…to win."

Omaha looks out the window patiently, watching the dark fields run past for a minute. Lights rush past in the opposite direction far in the distance – probably another train, maybe on a cargo run to a far-off district. Everything seems so small here, surrounded by the empty, dark land on all sides. I feel…cold, like the flat plains are sucking the energy from me.

"Let me tell you a story," Omaha finally speaks up. He turns towards me, his face still shrouded in the shadows of the night – but from the tilt of his head and his clasped hands, I can tell he's deadly serious. "A story about the Hunger Games. Very early on in my affiliation with the Games, I knew a young girl tribute…your age, in fact, maybe a few inches shorter than you, no thicker than a stick. She was from her district's orphanage; never had a family, never had anyone. She felt helpless being entered in the Games. Few judged to her have any chance, and I still remember the hopelessness in her malachite eyes. She knew – she knew no one thought she'd survive the first night."

"She scored a four in training; not unexpected. She wasn't versed in a single combat skill like you've seen in the Games – none of the knives, spears, swords, anything like that," he continues, his left hand occasionally waving for emphasis. "She did have one skill, however…she was very, _very_ intelligent. The orphanage hadn't drained that out of her. When she was released into the arena – a particularly nasty one, to be frank – she had already won over one ally, a boy, joining into a paired alliance. The two were a natural team, working together like clockwork."

"She was the one who really carried them, however," he went on, shifting his inflections to capture highs and lows of the story. "Where he was capable enough in fighting and strategy, her brainpower allowed them to kill several tributes. They even took down a pair from District 4 who had volunteered through crafty planning and patience. It wasn't the pair's raw skill in hunting, or tracking, or combat that let them win – it was their ability to _think._ So it was that one scrawny, skinny girl who shouldn't have had a chance came to be one of the biggest influences on how I mentor. When she learned what the other tributes were like – and how the Capitol prided weapons skill and power, rather than true strategy – she learned that utilizing her own skills, rather than trying to adopt another's without understanding them, would better her chances. You could say…it swung the odds in her favor. She began the Games without a chance…and ended them with every chance in the world."

"Did she win?" I ask.

"Heh," Omaha laughs softly. "Another time, perhaps – maybe in a happier time we'll talk about what happened in those Games. But the point stands – maybe you, Skye, aren't a weapons master. Maybe you won't shoot arrows with pinpoint accuracy from a hundred meters, or effortlessly stab a man's skull with a trident or spear. It doesn't matter. Those are _ways_ that can help to win the Games, but they are not _how_ to win the Games. There is no guidebook, no official manual. You're victorious on what you know how to do – and how well you understand your own set of skills."

"I don't really have skills," I mutter. "Not…ones that'll matter."

"We'll see," he counters. "It's late. You have a whole day of dealing with chattering stylists tomorrow, and I'm keeping you awake with old stories. You should sleep."

I don't argue – something about the way Omaha said "We'll see" tells me he wants to be alone. I step up from the couch, gathering the loose ends of my night gown around me and silently slipping away to the door. The glass panel hisses as I open it, sliding through into the dark compartment hallway in front of me before closing the door.

Something bothers my eye and I stop to rub it, taking a look back through the door as I do so. I can just make out Omaha's shape in the darkness, bent over his knees and staring out the rear of the train. He's no longer sitting stoically, but cupping his face in his hands, not aware that I'm watching. His body rocks softly - I'm stunned when I figure it out.

He's crying.


	6. An Eccentric Welcome

Things are moving too fast – _way_ too fast. I'm not prepared for this.

Today's been a hectic ride. I didn't see Omaha at breakfast – in fact, I didn't see Selene, either. I only had a few minutes to ponder whether or not I'd scared off both our mentors before something far stranger – and more awe-inspiring – caught my eye.

The Capitol: A gleaming, silver-and-gold city of geometric towers and spires rising high into the air. I nearly gasped at the crystal-clear lake bordering the city and the giant limestone dam holding back the water. The people in their pastel outfits, the flying personal hovercrafts lazily zipping through the air and between buildings like bees through a hive, the white-capped mountain sentinels overlooking the Capitol…everything struck me as inspiring and beautiful.

_Beautiful – if it wasn't trying to kill me_.

Ames wasn't impressed – something that I'm coming to realize is typical with my fellow tribute from District 9. While I asked Cicero questions about the Capitol, he stewed in silence over the breads, meats, and cheeses that made up our fanciful breakfast. I have a feeling we're not going to be the best of partners; stars forbid we meet in the arena.

I had pointed wide-eyed at giant silver…cars…walking on metal legs at one point, marveling at their size as they towered over the streets: "What are those?"

"Peacekeeper units," Cicero had mentioned off-hand, as if he'd seen them every day (and he probably had.) "President Nero and Peacekeeper Captain Cyrus are doing the perfect job maintaining order in the new regime. Marvelous…aren't they? Men held aloft in armored suits, able to keep an eye on the streets below, the buildings, and the skies all at once. It's a miracle of law and order."

Less a miracle; more a terror. The last thing District needs is Peacekeepers watching us from ten meters above the ground at all times.

A raucous crowd had gathered by the time we'd reached the station, nearly mobbing us as Cicero led us away towards a waiting vehicle. I'd felt claustrophobic at the time – bound by a million hands reaching out from either side of a narrow clear passage, looking to just _touch_ me for the giddiness of it. If this is what the Capitol wants to see, I'm not sure I can give them that kind of show. It's all so…foreign.

The car – if the long, slender, silver cylinder we'd entered could be called that – had offered up another taste of luxury, but unfortunately, not the sights I wanted to see. Window tint kept the pristine streets of the Capitol away from my prying eyes, and Cicero had hurried us out when we'd reached the Remake Center – where I've now spent all day in preparation for tonight's parade.

I feel like a test subject. Three stylists – I can't even remember their names, they chattered so fast and with such strange accents – spent hours tearing at my skin, pulling at my hair, and generally giving me looks as if I were some sort of misshapen farm animal. At least they've finally left me alone – alone in a cold, humid, gray-walled room, with only my chilled skin and a blue paper gown to cover me up.

What an honor.

Goose bumps crawl up my arms, pushing me to grab my elbows in an effort to conserve warmth. My hair – now straightened out and flowing over my shoulders and back – annoys me. It's in the way; a nuisance; I much prefer simply tying it back and forgetting about it. I guess that would be "ugly" in Capitol terms, but I'll go with utilitarian any day.

A faint sound – _singing_ – bounces around the room. Is that my stylist? I hope – with all my heart – that he's at least on my side.

How mistaken I am.

"_LA da-da DEE daaa,_" a high-pitched male voice echoes. "_Vivacissimo! La-la-la-la DA!_"

The door in front of me slams open, smashing against the wall as the strangest man I've ever seen – perhaps the world has ever seen – waltzes in to his own band.

"No, no, _animato!_ And the coda!" a tall, thin man with stringy black hair and beady red eyes yells at the top of his lungs, conducting an orchestra of his mind. "And – oh. Hello."

He stops his mental symphony as I raise my eyebrows, equally amused and terrified. Have the Capitol assigned me a lunatic?

"Ah! The only woman in the Capitol unfamiliar with my artistry," he approaches me, neglecting to shake my hand and choosing instead to run his fingers over my shoulder. I can't help but shudder – _yich!_ "I…am Magritte Miro, and I am _ASTOUNDED_ by the rules and regulations that these artistic _DEGENERATES_ have pressed upon me. Stick to their 'District theme.' Keep things 'modest.' No violence. I am disgusted. This is outrageous; it's an arrow straight to the heart of artistic integrity. I should – "

He pauses, noticing my mortified expression mid-rant.

"I had the perfect idea, do you know?" he cocks his head at me like I'm a morsel of food stuck on someone else's lip. "District 2; the male. A canvas of raw animal hide, stretched as a single piece of clothing upon the body. Upon that parchment, my work! From the animal hide, from the primordial beast, claws a _man!_ Capitol civilization birthed via the Hunger Games from the dark abyss of barbarity that exists outside these lands. But no. No. They offer the most valued positions to _painters_ and _weavers_. Not to true artisans such as myself. But…I did not catch your name?"

It takes all the effort I have to make my lips move: "Uh…Skye."

"Ah, I can work with that," Magritte bemoans. "Still – ah, well never mind. Too late to mourn for the aborted artistry."

"You…don't want District 9?" I manage to ask.

"Well of course not, it's bloody boring," my stylist scoffs. "I don't even know what your district does – hardly the stuff of legends. No gladiatorial titans will dot any appropriate attire from that, young lady…but our dear President wants actual artists to offer style this year, rather than the low-life, hanger-on designers who traditionally man these positions. If it wasn't for the prestige, I don't even know if I would have accepted. Of course, I figured I would have gotten a more promising locale to represent…ah, worries."

Well…this is troubling. First I have a pompous escort who thinks I'm excited to be here, then one of my mentors thinks I'm weak already…finally, I have a stylist who is not only insane, but is an egotistical narcissist who didn't even want to work with my district. I'm off to a fantastic start here in the Capitol.

They had better at least keep up the good food before we're all thrown into the arena.

"Then what are you…going to do for me?" I ask. _Someone_ has to ask that of this…Magritte guy.

"Improvise," he sighs overdramatically, like letting out a long final chord of some sad song. "It is the hallmark of those of us who think unrestrained by the flesh. I have…perhaps seen the occasional holo-video of your district, yes. Tell me…do they have elephants there?"

"What?" I reply, incredulous.

"Elephants…are those native to your district? A mascot, perhaps?"

"Uh…no. I have no idea what those are."

"Ah, blast," Magritte snaps his fingers and strokes his chin. He runs a hand up and down his body, which is modestly clothed in a formal black suit and pants for his…eccentric rambling. "Ah, wait! Fields, fields…fields of grain. That is District 9, is it not? Not the animal district."

"Yeah," I say. Finally, he gets something right! "Grain…wheat…soy, barley, all that."

"Ah, one of the outlying districts," Magritte nods as if he's just stumbled across some long-lost treasure. "How about this, young lady…I don't recall your name, but that's alright. How about…a field etched upon your outfit, sown with the memories of your lost tributes before you – a subtle reminder to the hazards of our Games. Beyond that, flanked by – "

"Hold on," I stop him, my heart racing. "You don't even have a…an outfit ready yet? The Chariot Parade's tonight!"

"Oh, petty concerns," he waves me away like I'm a toddler. "We have machines that can develop these things in an hour. I keep forgetting you and your fellows are from the savage lands beyond here. If this was to be a masterpiece of mine, I would spend days crafting it…but this is commercialism. The _thought_ counts far more than the hand it feeds."

"I…alright," I stammer.

Whatever Magritte's plan is, I'm sure it's not going to end well. I have no idea what the Capitol audiences like, but seeing that I've always remembered them in previous Games applauding the loud, gaudy, colorful outfits of Districts 1 and 4 the most – as well as the aggressive, masculine attire of District 2 – I hardly think my stylist's bizarre thoughts on "fashion" are going to go over as well as he thinks. If his idea of a masterpiece is drawing on a piece of raw animal skin, all the worse for me.

This is going to be a long day.

* * *

_**A/N: Thanks for the review, charliesunshine! Training will be up shortly - I guarantee it'll be fun, heh. **_


	7. The Opening

_What on Earth am I wearing?!_

I'm aghast as I pile aboard the elevator with Magritte in the evening, clothed in what can only be called an abomination. In theory, the dress draped over my small frame could be interpreted from afar as a reference to the golden fields of wheat and grain in District 9, but up close, it's far more terrifying. Each shiny piece of yellow wheat hanging off the golden dress – thousands, maybe tens of thousands of them – are each shaped like a tiny finger. In Magritte's words, it's representative of "man yearning from the Earth of the district to the Heavens of the Capitol."

He's made that even more apparent with what seems to be a cloud that hovers around my waist. A small device hooked to my belt produces a constant stream of water particles, creating a mist that won't go away. If that isn't bad enough, the cloud is dotted with small eyes all the way around my body, condensed pockets of water suspended by some sort of magnetic field. It's distracting…and somewhat disturbing. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised by what passes for "art" in the Capitol, considering this is a place that prides dead children as "entertainment."

"Ah, I cannot _wait_ for the exuberance of the crowd, in awe of my design," Magritte exhumes as the elevator zips down to the bottom of the Remake Center. "It's a marvel."

If by "marvel" he means "oddity," he's correct. I hardly have time to think about how bizarre my costume is, however, as the elevator doors open to reveal a scene buzzing with activity.

Tributes, escorts, stylists, and Capitol personnel wander about the Remake Center's garage level, veering past waiting chariots and horses and waiting for the show to begin. There's dozens of people here – maybe a hundred – all brightly-colored, from the costumes to the crimson-and-gold uniforms of the Games workers. Even the walls, towering a hundred feet to the ceiling, are dazzling; shimmering chrome reflects thousands of sun-like lights beaming down from high above.

Of course, Ames has gotten off easy. His plain gold costume, lined with brown to symbolize neatly-sown fields, looks far better in its simplicity than my bizarre attire. Combined with the work his stylists have done in emphasizing his cheekbones and molding his hair, and he looks ready to start the Games right now.

"An…interesting…choice, Magritte," Cicero greets us with a raised eyebrow as we walk off the elevator. "I…probably would not have expected that."

"The simple lives of an escort," Magritte replies as if he's talking to himself. "Little chance for true artistic interpretation in such a career."

I'm amused; Magritte's line has clearly irked Cicero, who now bites his lip to keep from unloading on the vain artist. Fortunately, I'm not the only strangely-dressed tribute in the massive garage. Magritte's line about other artists being contracted as stylists must have been correct, for a few of these uniforms are _horrific_.

I've seen District 2's volunteer tributes swathed in stone – to represent their quarrying industry – and battle armor before, but never such an abominable combination of the two. Sulla – the boy, whose stylists have done an impressive job making him even more formidable in person – is clothed in what looks like a piece of limestone that some dead person's bled on. It's shaped into odd armor pieces, but the crimson blotches and lines across it make Sulla more of a victim than a killer. That's probably not what he wants the Capitol audience to think.

Tethys – his fellow district volunteer – looks far more dangerous, however. Her black hair and wiry body are matched by a tight suit of onyx, a much better choice of stone than Sulla's garb. Her stylists gave her a spear and a shield, turning her into some sort of primeval goddess of war. It's an impressive combination, and when her eyes glance my way, I'm tempted to shrivel up and run away.

There's something odd about the District 2 tributes. While the other volunteers seem happy enough to talk to each other – both District 1 and District 4's tributes are engaged in conversation – Sulla and Tethys won't as much as look each other in the eye. I make a mental note: Is the volunteer alliance, which happens almost every year between those three districts, in jeopardy?

Perhaps. I'll have to wait until training to learn more.

District 3's boy – the strange kid from the Reaping, Lattice – may have won the best costume award already. I can't even see what he's _actually_ clothed in, but you can barely tell he's a lanky boy with messy red hair from the storm of blue electricity dancing across his body from head to toe. I'm legitimately impressed.

At least our chariot's nice. The ride's glazed in a golden sheath, carried by two tan horses preoccupied with sniffing each other. Ames leans against the chariot, watching the other tributes with bored eyes.

"What is _that_?" he asks as I walk up.

"It's…uh…whatever my stylist came up with?" I answer, surprised he's even speaking to me at all. "I don't really do fashion."

That's as far as our conversation gets. Ames looks away, tired of talking to someone he clearly doesn't value.

"Remember," Cicero escapes Magritte at last, urging Ames and I onto our chariot. "_Pride. _Stand tall for your district."

Thanks, Cicero. I bet that's easier to do when you aren't looking at potentially dying in a week's time.

The girl from District 1 – Crystal – looks my way, her eyes taunting my outfit. I can see her snicker from here, roll her eyes and mouth something to her partner, Cobalt. I don't bother to keep watching. Being made fun of by volunteers – ones who will be more than happy to impale me on a sword once we enter the arena – isn't my idea of fun.

I just hope I won't have to see her taunting me again once we enter the Games. I don't want to see her at all in the arena.

"Remember, chins up, eyes forward," Cicero points at us as the great doors in the front of the garage begin to open with a creak. "Make an impression!"

_Could be a negative impression with this garb…_

The sound of hooves catches my attention – the first chariot has begun to move. The doors continue opening, revealing a startling spectacle – something I've never even imagined in my wildest dreams.

People – thousands, tens of thousands, maybe a hundred thousand – scream, cry, and yell for their first real sight of this year's tributes. Greens, yellows, blues, violets, and reds dot a brightly-lit avenue as wide as District 9's entire town square, running for seemingly a mile towards the massive, temple-like Training Center far away. The Center's a monument to the Games, a towering, square structure with a columned façade that can't help but take my breath away.

Hundred foot-high pillars stand on either side of the avenue, waiting to capture our likenesses for everyone across Panem to see. Some shoot gold fire and sparks from their tops; others are lined in neon streams from the ground up. Even the skyscrapers of the Capitol all around the avenue are brightly-lit, with yellow and white lights dancing across the street. It's as if I've been taken from a world of darkness and thrown into the sun.

I'm frankly surprised I'm thinking at _all_, I'm so captured in the moment.

Our chariot shudders as our horses begin to move. District 1's carriage has crossed the threshold into view, and the audience throws up a huge _Ahhhhh!_ Cheers, whistles, and applause comes in from every direction, and Crystal and Cobalt know how to milk an audience. The two volunteers wave, smile and stand tall; even from here, I can see they're bathing in the adulation from the crowd. They're well on their way to reaping sponsors by the truckload.

I'm a little dejected when District 2 receives the same ovation. They get that – even with Sulla looking like a fool? I can hardly expect the Capitol crowd to cheer me on, given that I'm from an outlying district that rarely gets a tribute into the final eight.

Tethys sure knows how to grab attention, even after District 1's show, however. She raises her spear in the air, holding her shield aloft over the side of her chariot as if she's already won. Flowers rain in from all sides from interested male sponsors in the audience.

Gross.

Lattice and District 4 win similar ovations (I was right about the former – clearly his stylist knew what he was doing.) After that, however, the crowd's reaction to the next four districts is notably muted. Right before Ames and I's chariot crosses the threshold, District 8 recaptures some of the magic. Their blue-and-orange outfits, stitched out of virtually every different material I can think of, may be gaudy, but they're enough to draw in the crowd's favor.

Ames sighs next to me and we're on.

The Remake Center's garage melts away into the orange glow of the night. A writhing, snake-like mass of Capitol citizens fills every corner of my vision with movement. The towers of the Capitol, so large from the train and inside the garage, are even larger now that I'm outside; they reach high into the sky like steel giants.

Predictably, however, the audience's din dies down from District 8's welcome response. Either Ames's costume is too boring or mine too confusing; either way, we're favored with only the token respect similarly given to Districts 5 – 7. It's disheartening: I knew Magritte's outlandish outfit wouldn't earn me much, but to actually feel the audience's reaction is a different beast. I do my best to put on a bright smile, but I can see myself in the displays on the avenue's pillars. I'm thin and plain; not the hallmarks of the beauty queens from Districts 1 and 4, and certainly nothing like Tethys's hubris. Even the gold weave in my hair can't entice the audience's applause; a few flowers are thrown our way from citizens who haven't given theirs up yet, but it's a meager reaction

It's hard to keep smiling and waving when you're a disappointment.

"Nice people," Ames mutters beside me, more to himself than anyone else. "Love the suck-ups."

_Interesting way to refer to the volunteer districts, Ames._ He's right, in a way – the Capitol loves the districts who treat the Hunger Games like a skills pageant. The rest of us…we just exist.

Fortunately for us, the three districts following up don't receive much applause either. I'm not surprised; Districts 10-12 are even more isolated than our home.

After ten minutes of faking delight and excitement, our chariot rides into the City Circle before the Training Center. A thundering roar screams overhead, and as I look up, thirteen hovercraft sail over the top of the street, headed away towards where we've come from. Twelve send bright scarlet smoke trails in their wakes, while the thirteenth – the middle hovercraft in the formation – leaves a golden wake in its path. It veers off from the group, zipping high into the sky as the others move on. My heart skips a beat watching the jets – they're almost like birds, effortlessly flitting through the sky.

It's too bad the only time I'll ever ride in one is on the way to the arena – and if I make it out alive. If.

That "if" is all the more powerful as I notice Crystal again, in her glamorous, sapphire-and-emerald-lined white dress. She's examining us from the outlying districts, her eyes picking out targets already. _What is it with District 1? So predatory._

Somehow, I get the feeling that the training sessions will be an uncomfortable affair.

I don't get much time to dwell, however, as a tall, black-robed man steps up to a podium at the top of the Training Center. He's young, with beady yellow eyes and slicked black hair, high cheekbones stretching out a gaunt face. President Nero – the man who succeeded the legendary President Snow, only in office for a few years so far. Even so early into his term, his reputation is known across District 9. The President's supposedly a conniving, dangerous man – one who likes his fine tastes in everything from food to women. Rumor has it that he even shops the Victors around to placate his subordinates, using the best of them as "treats" – just one more hideous aspect of the Hunger Games. Even if you win, you can't escape the horrors of the Capitol.

Two men flank him – one who I recognize easily. It's impossible _not_ to know Cyrus, the head of Panem's Peacekeeper force. He's a large, well-built, middle-aged bald man in a stark white uniform; he's been in District 9 several times. Cyrus has a reputation for cruelty, and from far beneath the podium, I can believe it.

The other I don't recognize – a tall, lean, dark-complexioned man adorned in a black uniform. Given the red sash across his shoulder and the rifle slung over his back, however, I can guess who he is – the leader of Panem's special military branch. They're a group few outside the Capitol have ever seen in person; frankly, I hope it stays that way. The Peacekeepers are bad enough.

The President spreads his arms wide, welcoming the crowd like some sort of perverse savior. After a solid half-minute of cheering, he calms them down with a booming, heavily-accented voice.

"Welcome," he says, his short greeting carrying like the roar of an approaching storm. "Welcome…to the 98th Hunger Games. Welcome to the Capitol, tributes."

Nero looks down at us. His eyes are like cyanide; I avert my gaze from looking into them. Something about his stare – the corner of his mouth just turned up in the slightest smile – strikes me of a sort of sadism only sated by power. Nobody from District 9 likes the President, but in person, he's all the more twisted.

"I look forward to your efforts," he casts an open hand across the plaza, from one side of the City Circle to the other. "As do we all. Best of luck…and best of show. Lest I forget…may the odds be ever in your favor."

Nero walks off, followed closely by Cyrus. As the chariot lurches forward again, I catch a quick glimpse of the man with the rifle on his shoulder – the man standing next to the President. He doesn't look happy, or entertained, like the other two did.

He looks disgusted.

I thought all Capitol people loved the Games? The look I've gotten from him – the curling of his lower lip, the narrowing of his eyes – says he's either disappointed with all of us, or the prospect of the chariot ride and the Games entirely annoys him. From his ramrod-straight posture and statuesque movements, something tells me it's the latter.

He's not the only one looking in my direction, however. Crystal keeps glancing back at the chariots from the outlying districts, her tongue flashing over her lips. She's not just eager to get the killing going – she's _hungry_.

I have a bad feeling about her.


	8. Emotional Entanglements

My gut's bouncing around in the elevator the next morning. It's not the ride down from the ninth floor in our impressive Training Center suite. To be fair, Ames and I's accommodations for the next few days are quite nice, apart from the gaudy color scheme. Having my own room of that size with a comfortable bed and massive bath is a novelty – one I greatly appreciate. If we're supposed to die for the Capitol, the least they can do is make us happy until then. The food hasn't gone away either, and my lust for trying every new taste in sight left me to the point of bursting after the chariot ride.

Today things change, however; today, all of us tributes come face-to-face.

Certainly we saw each other yesterday during the chariot ride, but who had time to talk during that? Now we have all day – from the morning through lunch until just before dinner – to judge each other's strengths and weaknesses, to size up the biggest threats and worst competitors. I can only hope I don't fall into that latter category.

"You probably shouldn't be actin' so nervous right before we meet the others," Ames comments off-hand as we descend down the blue-lit tube.

"I'm not nervous," I sniff, tugging at the sleeve of the black-and-green jumpsuit I'm wearing.

"Right."

Ames has been a bit more conversational, but I doubt we have any future as a team. He's still distant; lost in his own little land of him against the world.

The elevator shudders to a halt and the doors slam open. Gray walls surround the training gymnasium where we'll spend the next two and a half days, with stations set all around the perimeter: Everything from training with weapons to learning how to make a fire await us. We're not the last ones here, but most of the other tributes have already assembled: I can see the backs of jumpsuits emblazoned with white patches reading 5, 7, 10, and more. Strangely, the only ones who haven't shown up yet are the volunteer tributes. Intimidation? Arrogance – or are they just late?

_Make friends, Skye. Remember what Sage told you_.

I take my brother's advice and leave Ames to his own devices, sliding up to Lattice in the semi-circle of tributes arranged around a tall, slumped, middle-aged man I assume to be our primary training instructor. Lattice…interests me. While I've seen nothing that tells me he's a good survivor, his detached attitude towards the Games that I've seen – as well as last night's impressive show at the Parade that's sure to garner some sponsor attention – has me interested.

I'm too anxious to actually _talk_ to the red-headed boy, but I flash a few glances in his direction. Is that enough for guys to pick up on?

The elevator doors _woosh_ open again, and here come the stragglers – all six of the volunteers. They're far larger and more imposing in these tight jumpsuits, but once again, Tethys isn't walking with the others. What's with her?

_Make friends!_

Trying to get on Tethys's good side seems like the longest of long shots, but if she's from District 2 – and she doesn't get along with the other volunteers – then she's a potential alliance gold mine. She did volunteer, after all – which means she's almost certainly had training. That kind of thing can lift me from "hopeless" to "has a slight chance," and that's all I need. It's better than the alternative.

"Alright," the slumped trainer wheezes. Clearly, he's a man who isn't happy with his job. "That's all of you. Now, listen up…"

The trainer – Livius – goes through a number of suggestions and rules. No fighting; no leaving until the end of the day; try out the non-weapon stations. It's stuff I expected, and I'm more interested in looking over the other kids who will soon be trying to kill me. The boy from District 7, Sumac, is another tribute who's a lot more impressive in person. He still looks depressed to be here, but he's no longer crying like he was when Reaped. Frankly, he could have a good chance, given his size and upper body build – another potential ally, perhaps?

_You're getting way ahead of yourself,_ a pessimistic voice in my head tells me. _Yeah, sure alliances happen a lot. But with you? You're a shrimpy girl. Look at the District 11 and 12 kids, maybe...nobody else wants you._

I give in to a moment of weakness and send a look their direction. They're pretty much the antithesis of what I'm hoping for in an ally. The kids from Districts 10, 11, and 12 are underfed and short for the most part; they look like easy pickings for the volunteers. I have a feeling that any alliance with them would result in a quick and messy death, even if we survived the Cornucopia.

"…you're free to move about the gymnasium. Just remember – " Livius concludes his talk, but the volunteers have already spread out like a virus.

Coral and Mako immediately jump at the spear station; Crystal and Sulla head to swords, while Cobalt goes for archery. I'm hoping to avoid them at all costs, particularly Crystal after she kept looking at the rest of us like lunch last night. Non-weapons stations it is, then.

As the other tributes fan out, I notice Tethys doing something odd. She hasn't gone to any station at all; instead, she's backed up into a pillar, her eyes darting over the other volunteers. I figure it out instantly: She's not interested in training; she's interested in _learning_.

Specifically, she's figuring out what makes her toughest competition tick.

_This girl is dangerous_, the pessimistic voice in my head warns me. _Don't get near her. She's going to run rings around you_. _She's smarter than you are._

I don't listen. She's the best chance I have at finding an ally who can take on the volunteers; I have to at least _try_.

"Hey," I slowly approach her, messing with my hair as I do. The action's showing off my nervousness, but I figure being honest with her is better than lying. "You're…uh, Tethys, right? From District 2? I'm Skye. District 9."

She doesn't even glance my way, keeping her eyes fixed on Mako impaling a dummy as she grunts an affirmative.

"You looked really good with the chariots yesterday," I try another angle. Perhaps flattery will work better, considering her aggressive poise during the Parade.

"Vanities," she mutters in response, her eyes still fixed on the District 4 tributes. "Appeal to narcissism."

I bite my lip. She's an odd one, no doubt: "Are you…with the other volunteer tributes? Your district partner and all them?"

She finally looks my way, but it's not the arrogant stare or dismissal I would have figured. Instead, her faces shows…_nothing_. Not the slightest hint of emotion; not the tiniest bit of pride.

"No," she replies simply.

"Well, I was thinking – "

"No."

That's that. There's no point trying to reason with her, trying to appeal to her emotions: For all I can tell, she has none. I backpedal slowly as she returns her attention to the District 1 tributes. Best to avoid Tethys for the rest of training…and to get away from her piercing gaze. Whatever her plan is, it's a one-man affair.

I wander over to the shelter-building station, dejected. Attempt #1 at making friends has ended in an abject failure.

"I don't think she's looking for friends."

I'm so caught up in my depressing thoughts that I didn't notice another girl already here. It's Autumn, the girl I first noticed for her stoicism during the District 7 Reaping. For being the e age as me, she's just as small as she looked on tv - five-foot in height at most, I guess. There's something in her green eyes that tells me a different story from Tethys, however – it's a hint of honesty.

"She was kinda quiet," I shrug.

"She _is_ a Career."

"A what?"

"Career," Autumn tells me. "It's…what we call the kids from 1, 2, and 4."

"Oh…we just call them volunteers," I reply. "You're...Autumn; District 7, right?"

She nods, saying nothing more. I get the feeling Autumn is the quiet type – not that that's a bad thing. She's been far friendlier to me in just a minute than anyone not named Omaha has been since I left District 9.

"I'm from 9," I go on, figuring I'll carry the conversation and try to drum up an ally. "My name's Skye. I'm supposed to be making friends."

Autumn smiles: "That's what my mentor told me to do."

"Who's your mentor?"

"Johanna. Mason. Woman in her 40s. I don't think she likes me very much; she's kinda…raunchy."

"Raunchy?"

"She's noisy and makes a lot of dirty jokes."

Ah. That tells me a lot…Autumn's not just the stoic type; she's also proper. Alright, I'm game.

We spend the next two hours together at the shelter-making station, learning the basics of how to dig out a snow cave, put up a basic canopy frame from wood, and shield ourselves from rain with palm fronds. It's not anything that will save me from death by volunteer – or Career, in Autumn's terms – but it's enough to keep me from the hazards of the elements. More than that, it gives me an emotional boost: I'm not bad at tying wood together or using my hands, and the tangible results of learning something new are both exhilarating and refreshing. I'm not _completely_ brain-dead.

Autumn's a nice girl. I take up most of the talking, but she's more adept than me at building a passable shelter quickly. She's probably had experience at this kind of thing in District 7…trees, and all that. Still, I feel a surge of pride that I've actually gotten _something_ accomplished. _I'm not a complete failure, Sage!_

Lunch rolls around and we're ushered into the gym's spartan cafeteria. As I pick up a tray of soup and meats from one of the food carts, however, I feel someone elbow me hard in the ribs.

"Were you talking to _her_?"

I spin around, nearly dropping my tray on the concrete floor. Crystal's an inch from my face, her eyes narrow and violent. I take an instinctive step back from her, my heart racing as I do so.

"Wh - who?" I manage to eke out in my quietest voice.

"_Tethys_. Were you talking to her?" Crystal demands.

"Uh…just a little bit…"

"Don't," she snarls at me, grabbing her own food tray and pushing me aside. "You'll regret it if you do."

Crystal leaves me startled and scared as she tromps back towards the volunteer table. I look around helplessly – did anyone else see that? Is that normal?

Someone _did_ observe. Out on the farthest reaches of the cafeteria sits Tethys – watching Crystal intently, gauging her reactions. She's made the girl from District 1 uneasy, and I can't blame her. But not even _talk_ to her? Crystal must be scared out of her wits.

Maybe even volunteers can be afraid.

"What was that?" Autumn slides up next to me as we find a table near the center of the room.

"Just getting to know each other," I dismiss. No need to tell her about Crystal…as if she had any doubts regarding the girl. "Do you think there's anybody else here who'd be…well…"

"Allies?" Autumn finishes bluntly. "I think a few of the others have already gotten together."

She's right. Off at another table, an "alliance of the forgotten districts" seems to have formed. The four tributes of District 11 and District 12 sit around quietly, exchanging the occasional word and watching others with hurried glances. I'm shocked; usually, those two districts don't have a chance and never even bother to clump together. Maybe they're thinking ahead for once – even with tributes half the size of the volunteers.

That presents a whole new danger for me, however. With a non-volunteer alliance also in the works…do Autumn and I have a fighting chance still?

"Maybe we should talk to them," I suggest, slurping the greenish, minty soup I've picked up. "See if they want more company."

Autumn shakes her head: "I don't think they're really…interested in getting aggressive."

_Well, what are we doing if not just trying to survive?_ I think. Autumn's probably right, however; the two of us may not be much, but no doubt the volunteers have also spotted them. They'll be high on their hit list, even if they make it away from the Cornucopia.

"What about that boy from District 3?" I offer. "Or the boy from your district?"

"Sumac?" she scrunches up her face. "He's…not taking it well. I heard him last night just…sobbing the whole night. I feel really bad for him, but getting stuck with him in the arena…doesn't sound like a good idea."

I stop before I point out that _I_, too, have done my share of crying my eyes out. Not all of us can be stoic and steeled, particularly when our emotions are running rampant in what could be mere days until our deaths.

"How about 3?" I repeat. "Lattice? He's interesting."

"I get this creepy feeling that he's going to kill everyone," Autumn shrugs. "It's just…he makes me feel uncomfortable. Look, teaming up is nice…but if we try to make too many friends, what happens with the Careers? Do they come after us? Do we get targeted by the Gamesmakers? It's a lot of attention."

Fair points. She's thought this out far more than me; I'm still stuck on the "make friends" line. Well, I've made one – and maybe that's all I need. Maybe she's right.

Okay, Autumn. We'll play it your way.

* * *

Omaha agrees with my new-found friend later that night.

"It's good you've managed to find a possible ally," my mentor strokes his chin as we sit in my bedroom, the sun already down over the high mountains surrounding the Capitol. "But she is correct. If you take on too many stragglers, you'll be weighed down by looking after everyone. If you last long enough in tense situations, you might even form emotional attachments. That kind of thing is fatal in the Hunger Games – this is a situation you need to keep your head, Skye."

I look out the window of my blue-walled room, staring down at throngs of people swarming a hundred foot-high television screen in the City Center. All this commotion, this enthusiasm…for a battle that we risk our lives just making relationships in. The bright lights from the Capitol towers and crowds below don't look so inviting in that context; they look ready to strike and kill.

I grab the window remote from the low-slung table next to my spacious bed. The Capitol disappears with the flick of a switch; in its place comes a field of tall, green grasses under a big blue sky. I need space – the walls of this luxurious prison are pressing down on me with the weight of what's ahead.

"Is that what you did?" I don't look at Omaha as I speak, fingering the hem of my yellow nightgown. "Get attached to someone?"

Rather than get defensive like I expect, Omaha turns thoughtful: "No. I know what I did…for better or worse. The attachment came before the Games…and after them. I'd much rather deal with them now than in an arena."

"After them?"

"Enough about me," he changes the subject effortlessly, giving me a paternalistic smile. There's something behind the façade of his eyes, however – pain, grief. He's hiding memories somewhere deep beneath his words; somewhere I'll have to dig deep to find. "So you've made a friend. What else have you done?"

"Learned to make a fire, a shelter, and tie some knots," I shrug, pulling my bed covers up to my waist and letting my hair down. "Oh, some bugs I can eat...but I hope I don't have use that. Not so good at the camouflage station."

"I don't think that's a very useful station myself; not too often you get paints in the arena," he chuckles. "Alright. You've got some survival skills down, but you need to work on competition. The Hunger Games isn't just outlasting the elements. Tomorrow, keep your friend from District 7 on your good side, and figure out how to use a weapon. Don't train with something you throw, like knives or javelins."

"Why? That girl from District 1 a few years ago killed everyone with throwing knives," I reply, thinking back to a Hunger Games three years ago. A blonde-haired vixen from District 1 smashed her competition in a volcanic arena, carrying a bevy of knives she hurled with deadly accuracy. It was easily one of the most impressive performances I've ever seen in the Games.

"Aura? District 1's mentor? She's not a particularly good role model," he winces. "Besides, if you throw your weapon and you miss, what then? Find something you can defend yourself with and fight with – not a weapon that'll get all but the most experienced fighter killed. Leave that to the volunteer tributes. You won't get that accurate in just a day, and that's the difference between life and death in the arena. Try out spears, fighting knives, swords, even archery – something that'll give you the chance to survive without being too risky. Now get some sleep – you want to remember what you learned today."

"Omaha?" I ask as he blacks out the window screen in my room. "The girl from the orphanage…the one you told me about on the train? You didn't tell me what happened to her."

He hesitates, his hand jerking: "That's…perhaps a better tale for another time, Skye."

"I want to know, though."

Omaha pauses, his finger dancing over the light switch. I can see the gears in his brain whirling: I've hit a nerve. Yet I can't just let this go…something tells me he knows more about how to survive in the arena than he's let on so far.

"She was the last tribute to fall in her Games," he finally exhales. "She was stabbed by her district partner, her teammate, after they'd killed the last remaining opponent."

He's still holding something back, something on the tip of his tongue that I can't tell whether or not he wants to share. It's a painful memory, for sure…but I want to know.

"Wasn't she the smartest one?" I push. "She let herself be killed like that?"

"She was…emotionally attached," he remarks, his left eye twitching. "She blinded herself in just the wrong spot; let the wrong tribute get to her heart. Those were my Games, Skye. Goodnight."

* * *

_**A/N: Thanks for the ongoing reviews, charliesunshine! Always great to have feedback and know that people are reading. Let me know any suggestions, ideas, or critiques, everyone!**  
_


	9. Weapon

"Look, girl…forgot your name, District 9…maybe you should try a weapon that you don't have to aim so much."

Another arrow goes wildly off-target, missing the dummy completely and smashing into the padded wall at the back of the archery corridor. I huff in frustration, slumping my shoulders down by my sides and lowering the practice bow I've been launching arrows from. I've been practicing for at least an hour and a half at the archery station; already, I went against Omaha's suggestion and attempted the knife-throwing area, but was even _worse_ at that. I have no idea how someone can even get a knife to fly without worrying about it cutting them, let alone impaling a target at twenty yards.

As for the bow and arrow…well, my dummy is still very much safe from my errant shots.

"No," I tell the archery trainer, vigorously shaking my head at his attempts to send me away. "No, I'm gonna get this."

He sighs, strokes his chin, and lets his depressed gray eyes wander around the room. It's already past lunch and I've done next to nothing besides disappointing the knife-throwing instructor and now this guy. Even my lone friend has had a better go than me; I briefly entertained Autumn's suggestion of trying the axe station (which we both failed miserably at), but she seems to have picked up spear fighting to at least _look_ capable. That's better than me; so far, all I've been able to kill is the cooked fish I ate for lunch and any enthusiasm left in the archery instructor.

"Let's try a smaller bow, then," the instructor sighs again, taking the contraption I've been trying the last fifteen minutes – almost as tall as I am – and handing me a smaller weapon. "Concentrate. Tune out the surroundings, and focus on the bullseye. Don't shoot until you're confident you'll hit it."

I grip the new bow – maybe three feet in height, at best – and nock an arrow like he showed me. I raise the weapon up to my eye, the blue, whispy feathers of the arrow catching my eye just the slightest. _No – concentrate!_ My eyes center up on the red bullseye thirty feet in front of me, inviting me to hit it dead in the center. _Hit me…hit me!_

With a surge of confidence – _this time I'll hit it_ – I release the arrow.

_Zzzzzz-twang!_

No such luck. The arrow sings right past the target, smacking into an exposed steel nut in the backdrop and ricocheting harmlessly into the concrete floor.

I let my arms hang from my sides, dejected that I've failed with yet another weapon. How am I supposed to have a chance at these Games when I can't even figure out how to use something to defend myself with – let alone master it? I can't accomplish in three days what the volunteers have had years – more than a decade, likely – to hone their skills in.

"Alright," I tell the trainer with a faked smile, hiding my surging emotions behind the mask of my face. Better to not let prying eyes from District 1 or 2 see what's going on in my head. "Alright. I'm done. I need a new station."

"Try something with less concentration," the archery instructor says as I leave.

Less concentration?! How am I supposed to concentrate when I can see Sulla and Cobalt at the spears station, hacking away at dummies with halberds twice the size of me? They make it look effortless – as if chopping me in half is simply all in a day's work. I can't even hit a dummy, let alone a bullseye, with an arrow; they've already swept through virtually every weapons station.

That's just _two _of the volunteers. How does anyone _ever_ beat them?

I notice Tethys again, still loitering against a pillar, flicking the end of her dark hair, and watching the two District 4 tributes, Mako and Coral, at work on the swords station. She hasn't moved from there in two days of training – simply watching others, keeping an eye on all twenty-three competitors. It's unnerving…yet stupidly, I want to get her attention. I want to show that I'm not just going to get run over.

To the swords station it is.

Autumn gives me a sympathetic look as I pass her by at tridents; she's managing to make good work with all sorts of polearms, but after my poor attempt with two-handed axes (ninety-pound girl vs. seventy-pound axe did not go over well), I'm not getting anywhere near those things. If swords don't work out, well…I'll have to think up something else. Maybe my ally can figure out large weapons, and I'll gladly take the help if we both manage to survive at the Cornucopia…but I need a way of helping myself. I can't help her if I'm already dead.

Among fifteen year-old girls here, Autumn and Tethys are looking a whole lot more cut out for the Hunger Games than me so far.

"Are you busy?" I ask the grizzled, thick-built instructor at the swords station as he watches Mako slice a dummy's arm off at the shoulder. "I want to learn."

"Shouldn't you be trying…I dunno, archery or something?" he chuckles, sizing me up with one glance of his eyes.

"Are you the instructor?"

"Yea."

"Then I want to learn."

"Fine," he acquiesces, pointing a meaty finger over to a rack covered in nasty, sharp implements. "Pick out something suitable, and come meet me at the circle of dummies."

I won't lie; the prospect of learning how to sword fight intrigues me. Despite my myriad of weapons failures over the course of the day, I'm still holding onto hope that I can learn something useful. The adrenaline starts pumping as I pick a broad, two-handed sword off the rack, hoisting the heavy weapon up in my hands. It's a straight, narrow, shiny piece of work – and while certainly heavy, it's almost beautiful in its craftsmanship.

"Isn't that a little big for you?"

I look up suddenly from my sword, startled. Mako's loitering nearby, the short, curved blade he'd been training with slipped in his off-hand as he leans against a wall. He looks at me with an expression between amusement and hilarity, as if seeing a girl with a sword nearly the same height as her was the peak of entertainment. His physical build, his Capitol-ready mane of blonde hair…he's far more of a tribute than someone like me.

The _last_ thing I want to do is get in another conversation with a volunteer, however – particularly after my earlier run-ins with Tethys and Crystal did not go well – but Mako's asked me a question; he deserves an answer.

"No," I say quickly, realizing after the word's escaped my lips how my voice jumped. "It's fine."

He laughs, picking up his sword and approaching me as I take a reflexive step back. With one quick motion, Mako crashes his small blade into mine before I can make a move. I stumble in shock, the heavy sword clattering out of my hands and onto the floor.

_Clang!_

Silence. Pairs of eyes from across the room look my way as I pick up my fallen weapon, embarrassed, and return it to the rack.

"It's too big for you," Mako smiles wryly. "Go find something else. Coral – let's go do something useful."

I wrinkle my nose at his retreating figure as he joins his District 4 partner at the rope course. _Volunteer jerk _– I can still feel the eyes of the other tributes on me, watching me completely flustered at the hands of Mako's stupid act. Why'd he have to do that? I haven't even _talked_ to the guy yet; haven't made a move towards the volunteers despite talking to Tethys yesterday. There was no reason to make me look incompetent in front of everyone else – like I can't even handle a weapon myself.

_But you can't handle a weapon, Skye_, a little voice in the back of my head starts. _Remember? You've failed at all three weapons stations you've tried. What makes you think swords will be any different?_

I don't know why I let things like this get to me. It's only a temporary setback in the eyes of the others, yet I still feel heat criss-crossing my body from shame. These are kids who'll all either kill me or die, yet I can't stand to look foolish in their eyes. What is it about me that turns such tiny defeats into mountains of embarrassment?

"You okay?"

Autumn's crept up on me without my notice, her green eyes lit with concern as I pick a slight, curved blade off the weapon rack. I know she's just trying to help, but the last thing – the _last thing_ – I need right now is sympathy. I'm angry, not depressed.

"Fine," I snap a little too harshly. "I'm fine. Just…fine."

She's smart enough to realize when I want space, backing up and giving me a troubled glance. I immediately feel guilty as my ally walks away towards the Gauntlet – the obstacle course of blocks and steps manned by trainers with padded staffs meant to test a tribute's footspeed and stamina. I shouldn't have just pushed her away like that. I've come to learn that Autumn's a more vulnerable person than her stoic demeanor told me; she's simply better at hiding her emotions than me.

I resolve to apologize before the end of the day; first, however, I need to figure out how to use this sword.

"Ah, the scimitar," the station trainer notes as I re-join him in the midst of a circle of seven human dummies. "A fine slashing weapon. Light, springy…good for quick moments, particularly with your build. Tell me…what you do know about personal combat with blades?"

"We…have things in District 9 to cut wheat," I manage. "Scythes."

"That's probably why you're holding that sword backwards, then," he points to my hand, where the scimitar's silver blade reaches out in front of me. "The curve goes back, designed for optimal cutting with a minimum of resistance. If you want a forward-swept weapon, we can try a kukri, or – "

"No, no," I cut him off. I need to learn this – this…_whatever_. I need to figure something out. "Let's do this. Use…this."

"Sounds good," he shrugs. "Now, the weapon's dulled so nobody gets hurt, but it'll still go through a dummy easy. First off, I'll practice with you with a training blade – show you how to center your weight and use that without making yourself an easy target. Then we'll see how you do against the dummies; first one-by-one, then increasing in time. Didn't get your name, by the way, District 9."

"Skye," I reply. This trainer's not so bad after all – a little blunt, maybe, but at least he's focused on his job. "Let's go."

He grabs a short wooden stick, squaring off with me three feet away: "Eyes up on me, not on your sword. That's a slashing weapon first and foremost, not a stabbing weapon. Watch how you're using it. Feet shoulder-width apart – now come at me slowly; trying to engage and end as quickly as possible."

It's certainly a hands-on training he's giving me here. I approach him slowly, the sword up and raised by my shoulder as I watch him for movement. He's relaxed as I do so, and when I try to slash down at his neck, he parries as easily as slicing cheese.

"It's not about an extended fight," he remarks, circling me like a hungry dog. "It's about killing your opponent as fast as possible with as few risks taken as you can. Don't leave your guard down!"

As soon as he says that, he lunges at me, his stick aimed right at my heart. I step out of his way, hitting his stick with my sword and aiming the tip at his chest. Too slowly I remember what he said – _that's a slashing weapon, not a stabbing weapon_ – and it's all the time he needs to connect his stick with my shoulder.

"There goes an arm," he says casually. "You gotta be quicker than that. If your opponent misses his attack, you have to finish _now_."

Frustration wells up in me again. It's my first time using a sword, but after three straight weapons stations and no successes, I can hardly stand to fail again.

"No use," I throw the scimitar aside angrily, letting it clatter off the floor. "I don't get this."

"Hey, hey…" he stops me before I do something rash, like walking away. "Tell you what – let's trade this in for a little more multipurpose weapon. Stay right there."

I cross my arms over my chest as he returns the scimitar, browsing among the weapons rack. I feel stupid again – once more, I'm letting my disappointment in myself rule my actions. How am I supposed to even have a chance in these Games if I'm constantly getting angry with what I _can't_ do, rather than focusing on what I _can_?

I'm the opposite of the girl Omaha told me about – the ally, I now presume, who he killed to win. While she may have figured out her strengths, I'm falling victim to my weaknesses.

"A gladius," the trainer's returned, carrying a short, stout blade in his hand. "Good for…well, pretty much everything and anything, from goring a guy to digging a hole in the ground. If you get one of these in the arena, you're set."

"What do I do with it?" I ask.

"Usually used for stabbing. Wield it in front of you, like you're preparing to go on defense," he tells me, holding his own wooden stick in the same manner as an example. "Wait for an opening, then take the chance given to you and kill your opponent. It's okay for slashing…I wouldn't entrust it to that personally, but it'll do the job. If you can stick it right into somebody's heart, you're set."

_Fine. Let's do it again_, I think, spreading my feet and squaring off with the trainer. He takes the initiative this time, hopping a step to his left before cutting diagonally-down with his stick. The gladius is light and easy to flick, and I easily cut off his angle of attack. It's almost..._too_ simple to use.

"See?" he says, as if I've just mastered warfare. "Defense is step one against a trained sword-wielding opponent. A small, yet practical and lightweight blade like that can do wonders. Now you try – attack me; get past my defenses. Remember, all you need to do is find an opening."

Easier said than done, but I'm willing to try – I have to try.

I skip on one foot, juking out with my left and cutting over across his body to the right. He anticipates my attack easily, but I give him just enough of a slash to keep him occupied. _Find an opening…_he's a trainer, does he have an opening?

Perhaps I need to think creatively.

Without thinking about the consequences, I kick the trainer hard in the back of his right knee while making a half-hearted slice at his arm. He intercepts the sword – like I figured – but he doesn't see the kick coming until I connect. The trainer stumbles, trying to regain his balance. I don't waste time, snapping my arm forward as he jerks and ramming the dull tip of the blade into his stomach.

"Guh!" he grunts, falling over to the ground. I pull back, horrified – is that kind of thing allowed? Did I just hurt a Gamesmaker?

"That's it!" he nearly shrieks with delight once he's picked himself back up, easing my concerns. "See, Skye? You find an opening – or in your case, you made one. Smart thinking, by the way…everyone else so far has just hacked away, even if they're awfully good like that boy from 2. Let's go again; I'll attack."

We practice for the next hour, alternating between sparring and me gutting dummies through the abdomen and chest. It's _exhilarating_ once I get a feel for the gladius down – a quick flick of the wrist here, a block here, a short lunge here. There's no pinpoint accuracy needed like with the bow and arrows; no special grip like with the throwing knives. There's timing and spatial awareness – and apparently I can handle both just fine. A smile creeps across my lips for the first time in forever – maybe I _do_ have something to offer. Maybe I _can_ make it out alive – at least if some volunteer like Mako or Crystal comes my way.

"Alright, alright!" the trainer exclaims after a particularly lively bout. "Gimme a breather; you're picking it up nicely, Skye."

I stick my hands on my hips, happy about what I've accomplished as I gaze around the gym. Tethys, as I expect, is still casting dangerous looks at every tribute with those beady yellow eyes of hers…but now and then, I can see she's flicking them my way. I guess she's been watching the sword station over the past hour, trying to judge whether or not the girl who tried to make conversation is anything to watch.

_Did I make a good impression, creepy girl from District 2_?

A loud _thud_ jars my attention, and I see someone fall off the Gauntlet and on the floor, hit right in the head by a trainer's padded baton. I can't make out who it is at first, but when I walk closer, I feel my heart my skip.

Autumn – knocked down right in front of the two tributes from District 1.

"Autumn!" I cry, running past one of the obstacle course's trainers and kneeling down next to her. "You alright?"

She looks fine – physically, at least – but a tear's welled up in the corner of her eye. Crystal's standing not six feet away, her hands jammed into her jumpsuit's pockets as she laughs with glee.

A hot lance rips through my guts; how _dare_ she? That privileged…stuck-up…_whore_ laughing at my ally, who's never gotten her kind of…well, _Career_ training in District 1? Who could very well be dead within a week; who surely doesn't have the odds anywhere near her favor like Crystal and her pretty alliance do?

All that, and Crystal _laughs?_

"Hey!" I shout, anger clouding out my better judgment. "Stop it!"

"Ooh," Crystal replies mockingly. "I hurt your feelings, 9? You and your little…partner?"

"Go away!" I angrily yell. I don't have a good response lined up – don't have any sort of reply that can actually hurt her feelings. All I have is anger. "Just…_go away!_"

"Maybe I don't want to?" Crystal laughs. "Maybe I like seeing her…is she crying? Is – and what are you looking at, bitch?"

I turn around as Crystal's bitter eyes look past me. Still standing against a pillar, Tethys plants her unmoving – almost _inhuman_ – gaze right on her opponent from District 1. The girl from District 2 has spotted a weakness in her fellow volunteer tribute, something she can use…something she can _kill_. While Crystal's busy laughing openly at Autumn, Tethys is laughing with her eyes at _her_.

The girl from District 2 licks her lips, and for the first time since I've seen her, the corner of her mouth turns up in a bloodthirsty smile.


	10. Fallout

_**A/N: Thanks to charliesunshine for the ongoing reviews! Feedback is awesome.**_

* * *

Rain. Rain, rain rain.

Warm rain falls around and over me, sliding off my clothes and skin in small rivers. It won't stop – can't stop – running out of the faucets high above me in an unflinching downpour. The rain mixes with the tears from my eyes, turning everything into a clean-smelling sea of anguish and distress below me. I'm wet, sopping, my clothes like gummy sheets on my skin – yet I can't get out of the shower. My feet won't lift me; my legs won't fire…and most of all, my mind's not in this world. It's somewhere far more despondent.

For all that training – for trying to make friends, learn skills, figure out how to handle a weapon, and keep myself together despite each day being one closer to a possible bloody end – all I can muster in my private training session is a _five_. One chance to make an impression on this year's Gamesmakers – one chance to show them personally what I can do, how I can survive, and how I can win – and I fall flat on my face. I can't get Corinth's stupid, smiling, plastic-molded face out of my head, his delight as he announced my pittance of a grade. I can still see the huge, white "5" plastered on the screen, screaming out to all of Panem how much of a failure I am.

Five. Not like Crystal and Cobalt, who scored tens. Not like Ames, who got an eight. Heck, even Autumn managed a six – and while not much better, it beats a five. Only Tethys, oddly, scored worse than me out of any of the tribute I've kept an eye on, and I have a feeling she did that on purpose. I admit I probably could have been more creative in my training session; stabbing a few dummies before setting one on fire and pulling myself up on a knotted rope I tied isn't indicative of anything glamorous. Still, a _five_? Don't tributes have to utterly fail to score that?

Perhaps I've simply failed, as well. Maybe it's that easy an answer.

I ran after Corinth announced the score on the tv. I couldn't stand to listen to Omaha's and Cicero's silence for another second; couldn't bear to hear Magritte chattering away idly to some stupid Capitol song any longer. More than that…I couldn't let them see me cry again. Not again; not after I watched Crystal stand over a tearful Autumn, laughing at her like some schoolyard bully.

I hate these tears. I hate these emotions; these Hunger Games that have reduced me to a number and a wreck.

My bedroom shower's a good a hiding place as I can think of, trapped in this ivory prison of a Training Center. I reach up behind me, turning the pressure higher and tucking my knees to my chest as the shower's pounding symphony of rain beats upon my head. My eyes lose focus, turning the tiled granite floor of the shower into a swirling mix of gray and white. This is my life: Caught under a relentless torrent from high above me, I'm stuck in a place where all I can see confuses me. It's all a blur; a misshapen, grotesque picture I'm living in.

An "oh boy" from outside my door jars me from my thoughts – and the subsequent knock on the bathroom door is one more reminder that I can't escape this horrible world.

"Go away," I half-sob, half-choke into my leg. "Leave me alone."

"Skye? Can you come out?"

It's Selene. What does she want? She hasn't even bothered to spend much time on me, anyway. It's not like Omaha's plans worked; no sponsor's going to want to pay to help out a tribute who scored a five. I doubt she could have done any better; besides, she made it clear the first time we met on the train that she thought I was cannon fodder. Now's pretty late to want to talk.

"What do you _want_?" I reply angrily, mashing my chin into my knee.

"I just want to talk."

"No."

That might have worked for Omaha, but Selene won't take no for an answer. She opens the door, sticking her head in and immediately spotting me. I won't look her in the eye – I _did_ say no, after all. All I want is to be alone.

"Skye…"

"I don't wanna talk."

"Then we won't talk," she says.

Selene pushes the glass door to the shower open, letting water spill all over the floor. She doesn't bother to say anything, nor does she worry about the mess she's making. My mentor simply sits down next to me, content to let the shower pour all over her like it's been raining on me.

I'm confused. Selene's the aggressive mentor; the one who's at home around confrontation. Omaha said it herself: She likes the fight. Why's she sitting with me? What's she care about a girl who has about the same chance as a fish dropped into one of District 9's wheat fields?

I said I didn't want to talk, but I lied.

"I'm sorry," I spit out. "I'm a mess. I can't get any of this right."

Unexpectedly, Selene shows her softer side. She puts an arm around me as fresh tears well up in my eyes, pulling me closer to her: "You're not a mess, Skye. You're not a mess for feeling hurt from all of this. Nobody should have to go through this…these Hunger Games."

"Yes I am," I ball my first up, pressing it into my forehead as I blink away water. My stomach lurches as it ties itself in knots – _stupid! She knows you're a failing screw-up!_ "You said it on the train. Sponsors don't like tributes who cry…especially ones that can't even get a good score. I'm just messing up everywhere."

"Skye, don't – "

"They're just gonna give everything to those dumb kids from the richer districts who can win," I push on through my anger and pain. Everything hurts – my head, my emotions, my body, my…_soul_. "They're just gonna laugh at me as they make me die. I just want to go stop this."

"That's all we – "

"Why do you care?" I interject, cutting off Selene's attempts at goodwill again. "You already won. You still go home after all this is over. It's not like this; Omaha even said you like fighting. Why do you care?"

Selene's silent as I run out of verbal attacks to throw her way. I'm flailing now – trying to hurt anything around me in a futile attempt to make myself feel better. Is this what the Capitol intends for the Games? A bunch of kids like me, killing each other to make sure one kid gets to feel better by the end of things?

What's the point?

"You know why I do?" Selene quietly speaks up after a silent minute. She leans back against the shower wall, turning the temperature knob up as she talks. "Why I can't help but get angry – why Omaha's quiet, lost in his thoughts? Why some victors turn to alcohol; some to drugs – others to suicide, even when it looks like they have everything? It's watching this and knowing we can't do a darn thing about it, Skye. My own Games creep up on me when I'm not watching, like some sort of…disease…that I can't get out."

"But it's worse having to see this," she goes on, her eyes flitting about the far end of the shower aimlessly. "Fourteen pairs of kids from District 9 have died in the Games since I've won. Twenty-eight names I know, characters I've learned, successes and failures I've tried to help shape…and each time I've lost. There's no silver lining. When you lose this kind of thing…there's no happiness or lesson to be learned. It's all crushing; you watch a kid, no matter what you think of them, die for absolutely nothing. All that hope just snuffed out, and all I can do is curse the Capitol over another drink."

"I do care. I don't want to watch you join the other names I've never been able to forget…and I don't want to watch you join Omaha and I, haunted by our own thoughts. You shouldn't have to worry about whether or not a sponsor wants you; whether or not some big volunteer tribute from District 1 likes or doesn't like you. Omaha and I just want to see you and Ames fight for yourselves, no matter who all these Capitol idiots think you are. Bringing you home on the train would be a better achievement than anything else I've done. If some Capitol people are disappointed because of that…well, fuck 'em."

Selene just couldn't leave out a bit of profanity. Still, I'm shocked: She's not the type I'd ever expect to open up, particularly about something like that. I'm still hurting, still crying, still upset and angry about all of this…but it's good to know I'm not alone. If nothing else, at least someone here in this far-off, depressing place wants to see me happy.

"I'm getting this shirt all wet," I sniff, looking down at the half-destroyed red sweatshirt that's begun to bleed crimson streams into the water.

"That's District 8's problem," Selene mutters. "They're the clothes people."

_Clothes people_. Are they, really? I've hardly noticed the two District 8 tributes since I've been here, but I bet if I talked to them, they'd be more than just kids who would've one day made shirts. If they're the "clothes people," then I guess I'm just part of the "wheat crop people." I'd like to think I'm more than that.

Maybe that's part of the Capitol's excitement over the Games. If it's just "clothes people" being killed by "fish people" or "luxury people," is it still killing? Does it even mean anything?

"Selene?" I finally speak up again as I watch water filter down the drain. "What's it like? Being a victor?"

"It's…a process," she sighs. "Some days I don't even want to get out of bed. Some days I just think all day. The best days are when I _don't_ think; those days when I simply have things to do or find some stupid way to occupy my time. Then I can forget all of this; I can forget watching pain and sadness, forget all the hurt that comes around once a year. Being a victor's better than the alternative, obviously…but it's not freedom. You're stuck with what's happened to you, all because idiot Cicero pulled your name out of a glass bowl."

She looks over at me, giving me a half-hearted attempt at a smile: "There's just two of us, though. Maybe we'll do better with you after all this is over."

I try to look relaxed by her talk – and she's at least helped me calm down – but inside, I can't help but feel a sense of dread. I don't want to die here in the Games…but even if I do come out alive by some small miracle, I won't be able to simply go back to living as Skye Holdrege, a girl in District 9.

I'll either be a victor, or I'll be dead. When all is said and done, I wonder which really is the better outcome.


	11. A Requiem to Joy

_**A/N: Fear not, Charlie – this story is episode 1 in what will encompass a series of several episodes. Now, whether or not Skye's involved in whatever happens after the 98**__**th**__** Games…is up to whether or not she dies in them.**_

* * *

"Skye, you need to settle down and think. _Think_ – it's the last chance anyone gets to see you before you enter the arena. What do you want them to know? What kind of impression do you want to leave?"

I pace around one of the two living rooms on the ninth floor of the Training Center, tugging at my ponytail in frustration. Omaha and I have debated, argued, and pulled at each other for an hour trying to decide how I'm supposed to act during tomorrow's tribute interviews with Corinth Terence, and still we've yet to even reach a starting point. He's suggested innocent and flirtatious to lure in sponsorship money, but acting like District 1 is anything_ but_ me. I offered up humble and grounded, but according to him, that won't fly.

It's tough to admit, but I almost yearn for Selene's advice to "forget about sponsors" again, despite last night's messy affair. It's better than trying to map out this perverse sales pitch.

"Why can't I just be honest?" I huff, taking a seat on an obscenely bright yellow chair and staring out the living room's window. The Capitol's bustling with activity today, like some sort of urban anti hive full of thousands of people clogging the streets – would they even like honesty from me? "Why do I need to leave something fake?"

"Alright, fine," Omaha sits back on a couch, folding his arms. "Tell me. What will you say – honestly – that's going to convince me to part with my money? To convince me, as some sort of Capitol citizen concerned with what's only skin-deep, that I will gain…social standing, let's say, by sponsoring you?"

"Well, I –" I pause. I haven't really thought about the _why_ yet, really – after all, I share nothing with the majority of Capitol folk, it seems. "I'd just say…I want to go home, and…and I want to win so I can return to friends and family. That kind of thing."

"And the other tributes don't? Ames doesn't?"

"But that's what I want! They can't understand I want to go home?!"

"This isn't about _people_, Skye," Omaha leans forward, planting his elbows on his knees and looking me square in the eye. "The audience has seen tribute after tribute after tribute. They want a good story – the _Gamesmakers_ want a good story to sell to their viewers. If you can't hook their attention, they'll forget about you and do everything in their power to make sure you won't win. There's always something about the victors each year – they're unique in some way, whether it's their aggression, their fear, their sadism or purity, each has a label."

"What was yours, then?"

I've hit a nerve. Omaha purses his lips, leans back on the couch and stares off into space. For a moment I can't see the usual thoughtfulness in his eyes; something dark, something _forlorn_ crosses his face, like I've unearthed a chest full of demons long since buried and brushed aside.

"Mine was love," he says simply after a minute or so. "So yes, I had a label."

I stare past Omaha for a moment, biting my upper lip in confusion. Love? But…he said that in his Games, he'd killed his district partner – his ally, the smart girl from his story on the train – to win. Love…did he…

Oh God.

"Did you…" I start.

"We're not having this conversation right now, Skye," he stands up, turning his back and walking towards the dining room. "Not now."

"But I just – "

"_Not_ now."

It's not an angry command, but it's firm enough that I know better than to push the issue. If I want to know more about Omaha – who I suspect is still keeping _much_ more about his Games from me than he's let on – I'll have to wait.

_There's a reason to tell the Capitol why you want to win, Skye,_ a cynical, snide voice says in my head. _'I want to win so I can dig into all the dirty little secrets in my mentor's past.'_

Omaha digs a full carton of milk out of the dining room's food dispenser, taking a long swig before speaking up again: "Have anyone special back in the District?"

"No."

"I suppose that's been overplayed already," he sighs, setting down the carton and looking aimlessly about our luxurious surroundings. I haven't seen Omaha look this tired since that first night on the train; whatever's swimming through his head, it isn't good. "We've gone through everything, Skye. Can you at least do excited, maybe? Something that won't insult the Capitol?"

I move to object – I'm certainly not excited about going into the arena – but something on Omaha's face stops me. He still has to deal with Ames in the afternoon, and I don't want to be any more of a burden than I have to be. If needed, I'll get more advice from Selene for tomorrow's interviews.

"That's fine," I say quietly. "I'll do that."

"Alright," he returns to the couch, looking down into the milk carton again. "What are you going to do in the arena?"

"Survive?"

"Have you thought that out?"

In truth, I haven't. My entire thesis on surviving the arena is hoping I don't run into the volunteer tributes – and that they'll kill each other off at some point in time and I can hide out until…well, until everyone else somehow dies. Of course, that still leaves Autumn: What do I do about my one ally I've made during training? She's not much good as an ally and friend if I just dump her in the arena, but otherwise I'll have a horrible dilemma on my hand if we're the last two standing.

_Just like your mentor._

"I thought…I'd just try to stay away from others," I stutter. "I have an ally. The girl from 7."

"Johanna's quiet girl?" Omaha grunts. "Better than nothing, I guess. If you're going to win…look, you'll probably be faced with a situation in which you'll need to kill. I hate to say it, Skye, but that's the Games. They're not pretty, and they make you do things you wish you never had to. Sounds like you figured out how to find food, water, that kind of thing in training…and you got swords down…but are you all okay up here?"

"What?"

He points to his head, giving me a solemn look: "Feelings, Skye. Thoughts. Like I said the first time we spoke, this is as much, if not more, a mental game than a physical one. Is your head in it?"

"I don't know, I'm not in the arena yet," I shrug. "I just…it's a lot of stress."

He chuckles: "You certainly are honest…alright. When you're in the arena, it's a lot of constant worrying about whether or not you'll make it to the next day. I know this will sound outrageous, but make sure you take a little time each day in the Games to just unwind and let your mind out. Take fifteen, ten minutes – unobtrusively, of course, so every tribute in the arena doesn't find you – and do something that'll keep your morale up. Whether it's throwing snowballs at a tree in a winter environment, climbing a tree and simply sitting at the top for a few minutes in a forest…anything that gives you a chance to slow down. Go too fast for too long and you'll burn yourself out. That's dangerous."

"You mean, like…" I pause. What's he advising? "Try to have fun?"

"Not fun," he waves his hands as if erasing the thought. "Nothing about this is fun. But you're still a teenager. Everyone here is. Do something each day that'll clear all the bad thoughts from your head, that'll clean your mind from fearing death and pain. Thinking about that too much is a self-fulfilling prophecy."

I think on that for a minute. I don't know whether or not that's good advice – frankly, it sounds absurd in an event where 23 out of 24 contestants die – but it _does_ make an interesting angle that I can use tomorrow in the interview. It's a lie – it's a mask – but I can go tell Corinth that I want to have fun in the Games. They are _games_ after all, right?

If the Capitol audience will buy it, that's enough for me.

* * *

It's always easier to be confident before the spotlights hit.

It's particularly easier when you're not under the stage at the Capitol Metropolitan Music Hall, waiting to head up for Corinth's interview session with a flighty stylist complaining about your outfit – particularly one like Magritte.

"It's so _plebian_," Magritte snarls, waving his hand at me as I check myself out in the mirror. "How mundane!"

I don't think I look half-bad, to be honest – better than his chariot parade outfit, at least. He's covered me in a shoulder-to-calf evening dress made out of shiny gold material. Diagonal slants run down the dress, just apparent enough so audience members out in the Hall will be able to take note. The gold doesn't go well with the light hue Magritte's applied around my eyes – nor with the way he's curled my typically straight and bland hair – but it's a subtle reminder of District 9 that won't take anything away from me, at least.

It's better than Magritte's…_outfit_…at least. My stylist is clothed in an ungodly clash of orange and violet, a tunic-and-toga combo bred from some blind monster of the deep. _Hideous_.

"I think I look fine," I protest. "It's good."

"_Good!?"_ Magritte nearly shrieks at me. "The artistic _parasites_ who run this cataclysm wouldn't be able to spot _good_ unless it sprouted wings and emerged from their skulls! The only _good_ that will come will be when the audience – the _true_ audience who appreciates fine art – realizes the deception played by these 'high fashion' fantasy-lovers. _Good_."

I make a mental note to suggest that the Capitol _not_ use full-blown artists as stylists next year should I win the Games. Subjecting another tribute to Magritte's narcissistic ranting is a crueler fate than being Reaped.

"Oh! But the best part is here, yes…" Magritte does a 180, immediately switching from a sullen complainer into an excited child. "Mmm, interviews…so _exciting_ to learn what's underneath the canvas of skin…I'm feeling ready, like a restless fetus!"

I wince at the horrible comparison – _not an appropriate metaphor at ALL, Magritte!_ Every moment I spend with this man is a moment wasted.

Fortunately, Cornith doesn't keep me waiting long. Before I know it, Magritte moves me to a platform in the back of the small dressing room we're in and I begin to rise up to the stage. Harsh white light shines in, and as my eyes cross the threshold between dressing room and curtain call, I'm nearly blinded by the glare of the spotlights. I blink several times to orient myself, careful not to mess up my makeup as my vision clears.

Hundreds – maybe a _thousand_ – of Capitol citizens in brightly-colored attire sit before me, each clapping, hollering, or shouting as the show begins. Corinth, decked out in a pale orange suit and oily blue hair, raises his hands as if he's won some great triumph, shouting to the crowd words I can't make out. I'm stunned by the energy of it all, the pounding beat of a soundtrack rushing through my ears. A look to my left and right show me that my fellow tributes rising up through the floor look equally shocked, ill-prepared for the noisy, startling pageantry of Corinth's finest hour.

We move towards a row of chairs in the back, taking our seats by district. Ames looks good, I'll give him that: His stylist's choice of a tan suit and pants do a good job of bringing out his features. If this wasn't the Hunger Games, I might find him a decent-looking guy…but as it is, we've hardly spoken despite being district partners. There's no future between us, and I secretly hope he doesn't last past the Cornucopia bloodbath in the arena. Running into Ames face-to-face during the Games would be horrifying.

I've forgotten all about the tiny girl seated to Ames's left, the twelve year-old from District 10. Her stylist has put her in a fluffy white dress that looks far too big on her slender body, and her nervous foot-tapping and clenched jaw don't do her any favors. She looks too innocent, too vulnerable – like one of the volunteers will come over right now and murder her.

I hate this part of the Games. It makes me feel bad for kids I should be rooting against – kids who'll have to die if I want to survive.

"Your dress is pretty," I smile at her as Corinth's opening act goes on, assuaging my own guilt as I try to make her feel better. "Your stylist did a great job."

She gives me a hint of a smile, just confident enough to send a split-second glance my way. Poor girl; twelve's far too young to go through this kind of thing. It's bad enough at fifteen.

"And I _know_ you've all been waiting," Corinth interrupts my attempts at friendliness as he sweeps his hand towards all of us. "Me, keeping you waiting – they must keep me on for my looks."

The Capitol audience gives a token laugh as he points energetically towards Crystal: "But I won't keep you any longer: Let's have our first tribute of the night – _Crystal, _from District 1!"

Crystal gives us an annoyingly smarmy smile as she prances towards Corinth in a suggestive sequined dress. It's almost enough to make me gore her right now – _urgh_. While I wouldn't want to face off with her in battle during the Games, I won't mind at all seeing her dead – particularly after her laugh at Autumn's fall off the Gauntlet during training.

_Freakin' bully_. Is all of District 1 like that?

Crystal's interview runs about as I expect. Corinth's all too eager to play up her looks, oohing and aahing at her ten in training and more than happy to play along with her "I love the Capitol" angle. Considering Cobalt acts nearly the same way during his interview, I've already marked off the entirety of District 1 as a massive Capitol suck-up.

Once again, however, the tribute who interests me most isn't from District 1. It's Tethys.

I fully expected her to come out swinging, but as soon as Corinth asks her about how she'll win, she immediately shocks me: "I'm nervous, Corinth. I hope I learned something in training…I did volunteer to be here, but I'd be lying to tell you I'm not jumpy about entering the arena tomorrow."

Does she even _want_ sponsors? Between her abysmally low training score – a three – and now her tepid, anxious replies to Corinth's inquiries, I'm convinced she wants to win without any help at all – like some sort of lone-wolf victor prepared to set Hunger Games records. There's something more beneath her veil, beneath the mask she's showing us.

Yet the way Tethys so easily engages Corinth, only the Capitol audience could be blind enough to see she's holding back. They might not sponsor her, but I can see Crystal moving around uncomfortably in her seat from here. Nobody's sure what the girl from District 2 will do next.

It's a frightening thought.

Sulla, Coral, and Mako all ace their interviews in top form, rounding out the volunteer tributes. They're the typical things – the two boys playing to strength and power, Coral hyping up her good looks and gracious moves for the Capitol's lecherous older men looking to sponsor some pretty young thing. It's a gross display of selling her own body, but I can't blame Coral. Sponsors can mean the difference between life and death; it's a small price to pay.

Outside of Tethys, Lattice from District 3 strikes up the most interesting interview. His outfit is interesting enough – a black tunic covered in small lights from shoulder to waist – but he manages to hold his own quite well with Corinth. He's thoughtful, considerate, and most of all, strategic. Lattice sounds like a kid who knows what he's doing; a smart guy – the kind I wish I'd managed to talk to during training. I wager he'd have been a tough ally, and I doubt he'll be a victim during the bloodbath.

Autumn's her usual stoic self during interviews, although I get the feeling there are one or two moments where she almost breaks out in tears – particularly when she opens up to Corinth about her little sister, Summer, waiting for her back home. I don't get much time to dwell on my ally's performance, however: All too soon, it's my turn.

"Two-thirds of our tributes down? Already?" Corinth looks as if he's struggling after two lackluster interviews from District 8. "Time is flying right by folks…but no time to pause! Let's have a big hand for our next guest, all the way from District 9…Skye Holdrege!"

I step up out of my chair, grasping the back to brace myself. I'm nervous, wiping away a bead of sweat from my neck. The spotlights are hot, but having to wait through eight districts before me did nothing to ease my anxiety. I plaster a fake smile on my face, lift my chin, and chart a course straight towards Corinth.

"Welcome; welcome, Skye," he grabs my hand vigorously, giving it a firm shake. Corinth is a lot younger-looking up close, with full eyebrows and a fresh face. He could use a new stylist himself, though. "Welcome. Please – take a seat."

I put on a happy expression, almost jumping into the interview chair as I try to play the "I want to have a fun" vibe. Will it work? Time to find out.

"You're from District 9," Corinth folds his hands, giving me a serious expression as he opens up questions. "I'm guessing the Capitol's a little different for you."

_Make them like you!_ "There's…uh…less farmers. And straw hats."

My answer was weak, but Corinth is happy to take it and run: "Straw hats – that's one I haven't seen before. Take note, members of the audience – it's a new fashion craze coming to a corner near you!"

Laughter resonates around the Hall, and I know I've got something going. I don't consider myself a funny person, but if the Capitol likes it, who am I to complain?

"Tell me, Skye," Corinth leans over as if he's expecting a secret. "Are you already lining up a promising career as a stylist?"

Even I can't help but to give a nervous laugh. My stupid reply has gone far further than I'd thought: "I…don't think I can decorate clothes with soybeans and wheat."

"_Oh,_ you'd be surprised," Corinth laughs uproariously at something I didn't consider very amusing. "Why – I don't even _know_ what they've put on my head tonight! This could be a cat, for all I know."

I'm not sure where the joke is, but the Capitol audience finds Corinth absolutely hilarious. I give a nervous laugh – better to play along while the goings are good.

"But enough about me; I'm already _old_, for heaven's sake!" Corinth laughs. "So, Skye – a bit of a disappointment from your training score – do you have some secret you're keeping up your sleeve? Some way you're going to beat everyone to be a victor?"

Time to play the fun card: "Well…it's the Hunger Games, right? I'm…I just want to have fun while I try to win. You know, enjoy it while I'm part of it."

_Bam_** – **I was spot-on with my assessment. Several members of the audience whistle, and I get newfound applause as Corinth laughs: "So many nervous tributes, and little Sky Holdrege from District 9 wants to have fun! Let me tell you – there are a _lot_ of people here in the Capitol happy to hear that, Skye. You're right up our alley – and don't we like to have fun, folks?"

Corinth's words spark a new round of applause, and I let myself enjoy a smile – a _genuine_ smile – for what seems like the first time in years. Maybe I'm doing something right, at long last; maybe that five won't come back to hurt me as much as I thought. Corinth's energy is infectious, and I find myself caught up in the moment as I enjoy the raucous cheers and laughs from the crowd.

"So that's what they teach during training?" Corinth moves on. "How to have fun?"

"I did learn how to eat bugs," I remark.

That sends the crowd roaring again, and I'm left wondering what kind of a career I could have made out of comedy. For as bad as the last few days have been, this interview is hitting every good note possible.

"Oh, much braver than me," Corinth slaps my shoulder for effect, laughing uproariously. "I just _saw_ a spider in my house and nearly died of terror. Imagine _eating_ one! Last question, Skye, as our three minutes are almost up…we saw you put on a brave face at your Reaping. Tell me…are you fighting for anybody back home? Hoping to go back to someone special in District 9?"

I pause. What am I supposed to say here? It's not like I'm some star-crossed lover, separated from their loved one by unfortunate circumstances. Sage wants me to come back…Reed and Shrike, too, but I'm not weeping over missing someone. I want to go back because I want to _live_.

_Use them, Skye_, a voice tells me. _Use your friends. Capture the audience. Win over the sponsors_.

"There's, um, one boy," I decide to cast my lot with Reed. "He's my age. We're friends, but…I always thought maybe we could be more. I wish we could."

That's a lie – there's nothing between Reed and I (or so I _think_), but it's enough to score a heartbreaking expression from Corinth: "Well…you've got something to fight for, then. Imagine his happiness when you come home – when you're re-united. Let's hope so – ladies and gentlemen, from District 9, Skye Holdrege!"

Corinth takes my hand and holds it up, and it's all I can do to stop from shedding a tear. Reed's a great friend, but I've never felt anything for him over all these years…why am I holding back now? Tomorrow I could be dead, and yet I've never _really_ loved anyone.

I could use him by my side now. The applause from the crowd may ease my worries, but it won't take away the truth: Tomorrow, the Hunger Games begin. Tomorrow, my life may end.


	12. Belly of the Beast

_Knock, knock, knock_.

My eyes flutter in the faint morning light seeping through my bedroom's window, the serenity of the sun's first orange rays rudely interrupted by a heavy thumping on the door.

_Knock, knock, knock._

I flip over in my giant Capitol bed, lifting my head up and staring at my fluffy white pillow. This could be the last time I see a pillow – or a sunrise, for that matter – ever again. I may have slept my last night, dreamed my last dreams – and for what? Was it worth it?

_Geez,_ I think sarcastically. _Didn't even have any __**good**__ dreams._

"What?" I grunt at the door as the knocking continues.

"You will meet me at the elevator in twenty minutes, precisely," Cicero's bland, stock voice comes from the other side.

So much for sympathy from the last adults I'll see. Selene and Omaha helped me calm down last night after another fit of tears, but they're long gone by now – off to wherever it is that mentors go during the Games themselves. Statistically speaking, I'll never see them again.

_What are people back home thinking right now?_ I silently wonder, curling up on my bed and watching the sun's slow ascent over the Capitol's imposing mountains. _Sun's up. Dad's probably already out in the fields…Sage will already be up. Will Shrike and Reed be up by now, thinking about me? Do they even _want _to think about me today? Today – a day when my two closest friends could lose me and never see me alive again. Maybe the next time I'll see them, I'll be dead in a pine-walled box…and they'll be crying over my grave._

_Way to stay positive, Skye._

I've wasted enough time already. I throw the covers off me, rushing into my bathroom and taking just enough time to run through a hot shower. It's not much, but I want to feel clean one last time; heavens know I won't in the arena. As I step out, I remember Omaha's advice: _Take ten or fifteen minutes each day to relax_.

Fine: Since I doubt I'll have time in the arena to do that (if I even survive…), better take those minutes now. I sit down in front of a tall mirror in the bathroom, crossing my legs and looking over my reflection. A thin girl looks back at me with an unhappy, serious face and tightly tied-back hair. She doesn't look like a victor – she looks like an ordinary person thrown into terrible circumstances. She's more victim than victor.

I turn away, pressing my palms to my forehead. _Can't think about this now!_

The bedroom fades behind me forever as I open the door, nearly running smack-dab into a properly-dressed Cicero.

"Of course," he presses his lips together as if holding back an unfavorable comment. "The hovercraft is waiting on the roof. I have already escorted your district partner up."

Is he trying to make me feel guilty that I'm not excited enough about entering the arena? That would fit Cicero to a tee, however…so uninformed about the feelings of others. My gut's doing flip-flops as we board the quiet elevator, and I have to hold back a wave of nausea as the doors close on the ninth floor of the Training Center.

Dead. Dead, dead, stone-cold dead – that's what I could be in just a few hours. My killer could be on the hovercraft right now, waiting for the last tributes to arrive as he plans my end. I cut my thoughts off before I venture back into "why does it have to be this way" territory. I need to focus – need to center myself on figuring out how to survive, not lamenting my fate.

Cicero's quiet on the short ride up to the roof. He's got no last-minute tips, no advice for the arena…frankly, I can't even determine whether or not he wants me to win. He's so caught up in whatever the Capitol likes that the whims of a girl from an outlying district must be like a whisper in the wind.

That's all I am to any of the audience, really – just one more glittery thing to watch for a week or two before it's back to normal and waiting until next year.

The elevator doors open with a _woosh_ and it's time. Before me, a sleek, silver bird with four stubby wings – one of the Capitol's hovercraft – waits before me, a steel ladder encased in a blue glue hanging from a white aperture in its belly. I freeze: Once I get aboard that hovercraft, there's no turning back. It's a one-way trip to the arena, most likely the last place I'll ever set foot.

"Pride," Cicero mutters next to me. "It's what we expect out of all tributes. Now go. Represent your district with honor."

I don't bother to look at him. His words, his misguided patriotism – they're a foul act, especially for an escort meant to guide tributes, not fill them with dread. With my head hung low, I step forward, walking into the blue light and grabbing hold of the ladder.

_Schwoomp!_ The ladder ascends as soon as I've touched it, and I'm fixed, frozen on its rungs. I feel a shock across my skin, some sort of electricity coursing in my veins as the blue light and the ladder suck me into the belly of the beast.

Light overtakes me as the ladder lets go. I only just manage to avoid falling over, steadying myself as the blue force field disappears. It's different in here…weird, odd. The walls are molded white, curved like some otherworldly architect decided to take angles out of life. Two low-slung white beds hide in the rear of this small room I've entered, with gray-white tables softly sloping into the wall. Everything's fluid, like it's been made out of water and set into clay. It's unnerving…and very white.

"This way please."

A soft female voice prods me forward, but there's no one here – no one but me. A door invites me forward, and as it opens for me to step through, I'm confronted with nearly two-dozen pairs of eyes.

My fellow tributes – those who will soon stop at nothing to see me dead.

They're all seated, strapped into jump seats arranged on either side of a long, gray room with blockish struts along the ceiling. It's a far cry from the entrance as I step in and a gray-uniformed Capitol attendant grabs my arm, forcing me into a nearby seat.

"Hand," he barks.

He's covered from head to toe in the gray, with only his perfectly-done face – a boring, apathetic face – showing a human beneath that outfit. The man grabs my left hand before I have a chance to react, pulling a…_gun_…out of his pocket and sticking the barrel against my arm.

_Whap!_ I yelp in pain and look away as something hot and sharp rams into my arm. The attendant pulls the gun away, leaving a little trickle of blood running out of my forearm. I move to rub it, but the attendant pulls restraints over my chest and waist, locking me into the chair. I'm not going anywhere now – it's to the arena or nothing.

"It's a tracker."

I look to my left, seeing Lattice from District 3 staring at my arm. _Little too late to ask for an alliance, Skye…_

"A what?" I ask.

"Tracker. For positioning," he mutters as if talking to a wall. "To locate their players at all times."

Something about his voice – the way he refers to us all as "players" – unnerves me. I look away, hoping to find a friendly face, but I don't find one seated in front of me. Tethys stares up at the ceiling like she's bored, as if the Hunger Games are a daily occurrence. I don't know how she does it.

The two tributes from District 8 are loaded on as the final two tributes, and the hovercraft roars to life. I feel anxiety rushing through my stomach again as the craft's engines push us up into the air – but whether it's from the thought that I'm actually flying or the realization that I'm embarking on the final journey towards death, I don't know.

Of course: The first time I get to fly, and the hovercraft has no windows. We could be _underground_, for all I know – or driving along the streets of the Capitol. Some of the other tributes look around as well, unsettled by the thought that we're accelerating through the air. We barely even have _ground_ vehicles in District 9; anything like this is only seen whenever the Capitol's people pay us a visit.

"God, it's so _mopey_ in here," I hear Crystal mutter from somewhere towards the front of the bay. "Crybabies."

Tethys is the last person I expect to rise to Crystal's complaining, but as she stares up at the ceiling, the girl from District 2 retorts, "We could get started, if you'd like."

"Yeah?" Crystal barks back. I can't see her, but trying to imagine what shade her face is turning distracts me from the fear surging in my guts. "I'll find you in the arena, you little bitch. We'll see what the score is then."

"Zero-zero," Tethys mutters nonchalantly, picking at a fingernail. "Your turn."

Crystal drops it, muttering something inaudible that I'm sure is full of curses. I'm forced to smile: It's too bad Tethys won't even as much as look at another tribute. While I'd expect nothing less than a broken neck in the middle of the night from her, she sounds like she'd be an entertaining ally, if nothing else. It's nice to see someone standing up to Crystal's bullying.

Nobody else says so much as a word during most of the rest of the trip, which seemingly drags on for hours. I fidget in my seat, pressing my head into the steel girder behind me. The Capitol just _has_ to make us sit here – to stew about our fates, about who'll soon be dead, about which one of these other 23 kids will kill us. It's so fitting: We're powerless even when we can't get up and kill each other; even in the arena, we'll be powerless to do anything _but_ killing. This stress, this anxiety and the shaking of my knee…it'll keep up as long as I'm still alive in the arena and there are still others around.

So if I die, it'll be scared and alone…except for my killer. That's a horrible way to go.

Death's not anything new to me: District 9's not exactly the Capitol, after all, and hardly a week goes by without another poor man or woman dying from disease or worse on the streets. It's depressing, but I've gotten used to it as a part of life.

I just never thought it would be me…not like this.

Before I can start crying from my thoughts, the twelve year-old girl from District 12 breaks down into tears a few seats up from me. I can't help but feel bad for such a small girl to be thrown into something like this, and while I know she wouldn't be much help as an ally, she deserves someone to be there for her before she goes.

Maybe we'll run into each other in the arena. I'm forced to wonder, however: If we did…would I try to take her as an ally? Will the arena reduce me into some sort of savage, determined to kill everything in sight? Yikes.

Too many thoughts. I do my best to clear my head as the hovercraft slows down, clogging my ears with the pressure change. The ship settles down on the ground just a few short minutes later, landing with a loud _thump._ White-armored Peacekeepers flood the ship, pulling us out of our restraints and dragging us off with one each.

I'm forced into a quick walk as my Peacekeeper escort pushes me into a dank, concrete tunnel covered in strange, angry industrial equipment attached to the walls. I feel like I'm walking on some sort of death march – like I'm being paraded before an audience of onlookers before a public hanging in the town square. I know this part isn't recorded for the audience, but I can't help but to feel as if the eyes of Panem are already watching – watching me sweat, watching me twitch, watching my eyes look around this dark hall, on guard for something to come out and hit me before the Games even begin.

Nothing of that sort happens to me, but when the Peacekeeper finally leads me into my holding room before I'm thrown into the arena – a small, green-walled area that smells like stale bread – I'm confronted with the last person I'd want to see as my final visitor.

"How _perverse_ these outfits for the arena are! It's as if they expect an _aquatics_ competition, not an exciting match of death! I'm not sure why _my_ services are required here, anyway…oh, the _bureaucracy_…"

Magritte's in the middle of another self-aggrandizing monologue as I step into the room, bracing myself on the wall. I figured tributes would get someone to see them off into the arena but…but _him_? What advice can _he_ give me? My stylists wouldn't last two seconds in the Hunger Games, and he doesn't even seem too concerned about my predicament.

"Hello?" I manage.

"Oh. You," Magritte gives me just a glance before pointing to clothes hung over hooks on the wall. "Put those on. Food and liquid on the table. I am going to have a _word_ with the administrator…this is no position for someone with _my_ status."

Just as soon as I arrive, Magritte's gone. He blows past me, hurrying out the door and bothering only to swear at a Peacekeeper before storming away. _Stupid,_ I think. _At least he was a person. Now you have nobody, Skye. Now nobody's here to give you one last hug._

I kneel down on the hard tile floor, my skin growing goosebumps from the chilly air down here. The wall's hard and unforgiving as I press my forehead against it, closing my eyes in exhaustion. I'm tired – tired of all this, tired of the appearances and the training and the scheming. It's almost over, I suppose…will I even last the night? Will it hurt?

_Don't give up, Skye, please,_ a small voice, a tiny voice I never hear speaks up in my head. _There's nobody here for you, but there are still people who want to see you go home. Don't give up, even if you want to give up. Even if you want to just sleep._

I pound the fleshy side of my fist into the wall, standing up and walking over to the outfit I'll wear until I'm either a victor or a corpse.

My hands caress a chocolate-colored, flexible shirt, feeling smooth material that's designed to bend and stretch. It's hardly a _shirt_, with sleeves that'll only cover half of my upper arm; I can see why Magritte called it "aquatic" easily, however. The garment's tiled in small hexagonal shapes that feel spongy and springy under my fingers, like they're meant to repel water. The shirt's unusually light in my hands as I hold it aloft – am I headed into some sort of jungle or something?

No doubt about it: The uniform's certainly not designed with snow in mind. A pair of similarly-colored pants are strong but supple, easily stretching over my fingers as I pull on the material. A band of tough material at the waist tightly cinches about my waist as I tug the pants in; it's some sort of tough, elastic belt, pulling the shirt tighter over my frame to form a single, unbreaking article of clothing from my neckline to my ankles. I'm not so much as wearing clothes as I am a second layer of skin.

I look at myself in the dirty mirror in the room, examining the outfit. It won't stop me from getting hurt, that's for sure – but if I'm charging headfirst into a jungle or something, it might be good enough to let me run, jump, climb, and even swim without getting in the way. Indeed, I can barely even feel the skintight suit on me now that I've donned the uniform.

Of course, the lecherous men of the Capitol probably won't mind it too much, either…

"Blech," I stick my tongue out at my reflection at the thought. "Gross, Skye."

I hope the Peacekeepers outside don't mind me talking to myself; it's not like there's anybody else to talk to.

I slip on a pair of brown shoes – more like extra _feet_, the way they cling to me and stretch over my soles with a tough, rubbery material that'll hopefully keep sticks and such things from hurting. Only now I realize it'll be a long wait until I'm called up until the brightly-lit tube at the far end of the room – called to abandon civilization as I know it for the savagery of 23 other kids.

_How depressing_. I sit down at the room's small wooden table, grabbing the jug of water and small meal that's been laid out for me. All I want to do is lay my head down and go to sleep, but that's not an option – if I don't eat now, who knows if I'll ever eat again? Admittedly, the tough meat and crackers that comprise my food don't make me _want_ to eat, but it's all I have. Beggars can't be choosers, particularly when Selene and Omaha will be doing the begging for sponsorships. I don't even _get_ to beg.

It's a solemn, quiet thing, contemplating death. I've held myself together so far since boarding the hovercraft, and now I just feel numb as I shovel food into my mouth like a robot. There's no reason to hit walls, to curse the Capitol, to make any final battle plans – all that's been done, and doing more will only make my head hurt. Instead I focus on swallowing water, chewing food…the most mundane acts of life that seem like novelties now.

Once I'm done, I'm left with my thoughts to wait – _to wait,_ to wait until the Capitol's given me permission to walk towards death. I curl up on the floor, grabbing my knees and placing my head against my forearms.

All I want is someone here to be with me – someone to hold me, someone to whisper in my ear that I'll make it out alive – but there's nobody. Nobody to tell me I'll come out of the arena safe and sound, nobody to tell me I'll see my home again someday. I'm forced to hold myself as minutes tick by, clutching my knees and letting a single tear fall from my worn-out eyes, so sick of tears over the past week.

_If anybody's listening_, I think, keeping my head down and staring into the floor. _I'm sorry I can't be better. I'm sorry I can't be that proud tribute I'm supposed to be like Cicero says, District 9. Sage, I want to come home…but I don't know if I can. I still love you…Reed, Shrike, please don't get too hung up on me. Don't cry too much. I've cried all there is to cry, anyway. _

"_Sixty seconds_."

A thick male voice bleats out the count from a speaker in the room and my heart bursts from the starting gate. I look up, panicking – sixty seconds already? That's all I have?!

The clear, open tube on the other side of the room awaits me, its door swung wide open to allow one tribute access to the arena. With so little time left, I suddenly want to run – to flee, to escape, to cling to what little bit of life I have left. _Why didn't I practice more? Why didn't I learn more weapons? Find more allies?_

I take a shaky step forward, nearly tripping over my own foot as the tube beckons: _Come, come forth, tribute…come to me, come to die. Come to the arena that you'll never leave alive._

_No!_ My heart screams as it races. _Run away, Skye, go, hurry!_

I can't – not now. I shamble forward, almost running into a wall as my outstretched hand hits the hard plastic of the tube. It's cold, artificial – like most things of the Capitol, _inhuman_. I take a deep breath and step inside as the speaker chants _"Ten seconds_." No place to go now – no room to escape. I'm committed.

"_Time_."

The plastic tube closes around me with the sound of silence. I reach my hands out, pressing up against the plastic as it begins to rise. It's choking me, cutting me off – they'll trap me in here, never let me go!

White light rushes in from all sides as the green-walled holding room disappears, consumed by all this light – light like I'm rushing off to see some faraway star, being sucked into its twinkling beauty at night. There's no beauty where I'm going, though – nothing but the ugliest of what we have to offer.

The light's growing dimmer, fainter – I'm almost there. The seal at the top of the tube breaks the surface of the arena, and I begin to find out just where I am.

The sound of birds, the smell of ash – I can feel the sun beating down on me from high above as the tube rushes up. It's hot, too hot – too hot for even this spartan uniform. All I can see above is blue sky, dotted with nary a single cloud.

When I finally see, it's not Hell that awaits me in the arena – it's beauty. It's beauty that will be tainted by blood; beauty that will be spoiled by the Hunger Games.


	13. Baptism By Blood

The smell of salt after a summer rain. Birds, crying melodies in the warm air. Rocks the color of ash and soot. Trees dangling tempting offers of fruits and nuts.

All spoiled by one thing – the giant gold Cornucopia poking out from the barren earth like some sort of primeval deity of war.

I'm surrounded by blue on all sides: Blue sky, blue water stretching as far as the eye can see. Even next to me, a blue jumpsuit just like my brown one – it's Coral, looking around with nervous eyes. The Capitol's dropped us in some verdant island paradise, with the Cornucopia mounted on a rocky mountaintop. I can see for miles and miles up here: Green expanding below me, down from this precipice, stretching all the way to white sand. Then it's ocean water – the smell of salt, I suppose – reaching out into the expanse.

Four other, smaller islands form a motley archipelago; we're on the middle of a crescent of small land masses that seem to vary in size from this large central island to two small green dots at the ends of the crescent. I panic at first: I don't know how to swim! I'm stuck on this island here, however big it is, with whatever the Careers can throw at me. Then I see it – like veins across an arm, small, thin bits of shallow water reach out like roads between the islands, connecting walkable paths across the crescent. No way to cross the mouth of the archipelago, however – so if I find myself stuck on one of those outlying islands, I'll only be able to go back the way I came.

"_Welcome_," a loud, rumbling voice interrupts me. It's old, ancient Claudius Templesmith, on his umpteenth Games as a commentator; everyone who's watched these before knows his voice. "_Welcome, tributes, audience, to the 98__th__ Hunger Games. May the odds be…ever in your favor. Begin the countdown_."

A red flare shoots from the top of the golden horn of the Cornucopia, arcing high into the sky and leaving a smoky trail behind it. I'm ripped from my gazing off into the blue distance, forced to confront my surroundings as I hear beats tick off. I've got sixty seconds…sixty seconds between now and all bets being off.

Coral's on one side of me; the small girl from District 12's on the other. All twenty-four of us are arranged in a semi-circle around the opening of the Cornucopia; even from here, I can see it's packed to the brim with an arsenal of weaponry. I'm not going in there, however. I made a plan ahead of time: Anything that's within five steps in front of me is fair game; anything farther than that I'll have to leave. I can't risk going too far into the bloodbath. I'm quick, but from the way Sulla and Tethys are perched like sprinters on their platforms, their faces contorted in concentration, I know I won't have much time to run.

Fortunately, the nearby area's got decent pickings. I spot a length of coiled white rope just two feet or so away, with a small green rucksack maybe eight feet in front of me. It's a stretch, but considering that I have no idea what the Gamesmakers have planned, grabbing that is a risk I'm willing to take.

Alright. Rope. Sack. Run.

_Boom. Boom. Boom._ Time ticks down, and I quickly realize I have no idea _where_ I'm running to. Far ahead, the mountain seems to slope down gently – but nearby and behind me, all I can see is the ocean and the other islands. Looks like a steep drop, and I don't have any other choice.

Hope I don't break anything…

I give a last look to the other kids as my gut strains with anxiety. Several of us will be dead in just moments, and somehow I'm still _thinking_ with that weight hanging over me. The little girl to my right looks petrified, her fists clenched at her sides as she looks blankly at the Cornucopia.

I feel one last pang of regret for her when my time for feeling runs out.

_Bang!_

A green jet shoots out of the Cornucopia and I take an involuntary step back. _No! No! Get the rope, Skye!_

Movement catches my eye as Coral snaps forward. We're both already far behind the leader – Tethys is almost halfway to the Cornucopia by the time I dash forward a step, bend down, and snatch up the rope. Tributes are breaking every which way – a flash of tan to my left, a scarlet jumpsuit fleeing down the mountain to my right, a blast of liquid crimson and a scream in front of me.

Wait –

Coral slumps to the ground just a few meters away from the Cornucopia, her hands cupping an arrow buried deep in her stomach. She paws at the blow, falling down on all fours as blood rushes out to stain the ground.

Oh God. She's dying…she's…volunteer dying…blood…

I don't have time to think. Tethys has reached the weapons and already racked up a kill, just narrowly missing a hard-charging Sulla with another arrow. They're at it with hand-to-hand weapons in now time, and I dive at the rucksack as my head clears. _Don't look at Coral. Don't look at the Cornucopia. Run_.

My stomach churns in disgust and remorse as I spin, the thought of seeing a fellow teenage girl cut down just meters from my face tugging at my legs. I stumble on the craggy rock of the mountain, hurrying forward as fast as I can go.

Birds. Rocks. Trees. Water. Islands.

Dead tributes. Screams. Blood.

I allow myself one look back, making sure there's nobody in pursuit. There's far more action at the Cornucopia: A good amount of kids have engaged in the battle, and Tethys and Sulla are still going at it with swords. At least two other bodies have joined Coral's on the ground already, red blood the color of a fallen sunset mixing with the black dirt of this mountain.

A strangled cry escapes my panting lips as I spot Crystal. She's got the thin, malnourished girl from District 11 at the ground, standing above her like a demon as the girl tries to hold on to her leaking intestines. Bile seeps up in my throat – acid-like, horrible, as the District 11 girl crawls away, her face twisted into unimaginable agony.

Crystal lets her linger. She doesn't cut her down with the blade that's in her hand. She kicks the District 11 girl over, stares in her eyes, and stomps down hard on her face.

I look away, sprinting faster and faster towards the edge of the mountaintop. Can't let Crystal see me…can't let her find me, do that to me…

No.

The sound of cries, whimpers, and screams overwhelms the cries of birds and the sloshing of the ocean below. It's a symphony of terror back there, something inhuman that's poisoning this beautiful arena.

I reach the edge of the plateau – and very nearly tumble off the edge, stopping myself just short of what's a dizzying drop. The cliff reaches two hundred feet straight down, with horizontal black rock falling vertically to the jungle canopy below. I shoulder the sack, pulling the rope over my arm – surely there's a way down! I can't go back, back to…where those other kids I trained and paraded alongside are…are…are _murdering_ each other like animals!

Just when I'm on the brink of breaking down, I see it: A narrow path, almost like a winding staircase, down the cliff. It's narrow, only good enough for one person, and if I'm not careful I'll take a wrong step and plunge off the side…but it's the one chance I have.

No choice now.

Without a look back at that bloody scene around the Cornucopia, I take my first step into the heart of the arena. My foot wobbles as I step down into the path, forcing me to reach out a hand into the black rock of the cliff to steady myself. There's no room for error here, but if I'm not quick, someone's going to see me. Better hurry.

"Just one step at a time, Skye," I whisper to myself, my breaths coming in short, ragged huffs. "Just one step."

Step after step after step, I start to descend down the cliff. I can still hear lingering sounds of violence from above around the Cornucopia, but they're dying down; soon, the cannon shots will mark my fellow tributes who've already died. So far, I'm just thankful I'm not one of them.

Yet.

The forest isn't as pristine and beautiful the closer I get to it. The broad-leafed trees cut a thick, dense swath of dark green all around the black cliff; I can't even see into the brush. No tribute's going to find me there, for sure…but I also won't be finding anything in a hurry. From the grunting and moaning that's coming from deep within the jungle, I'm guessing I won't be alone, either.

I stop about halfway down the cliff face, taking a seat on the narrow path and looking out over the ocean. Even if a volunteer from up above saw me now, there'd be little they could do about it save climbing down the entire path I just descended. Given that all sounds of violence from up above have stopped, I figure I've been at this for some time…and have bought myself a moment of safety.

_Boom!_

No safety here. That's the cannon…one tribute down. How many more to go?

Something silver and wispy races overhead, rushing to the mountaintop. It's the Capitol's arena drone: Whenever someone dies, that horrible, six-winged, mechanical, bug-like _thing_ zips by, scoops them into its bay, and hurries off like a possessed mosquito. It's always horrible to watch in action as a symbol of death, but up close and in person, it's far worse.

_Boom! Boom!_

Two. Three…

_Boom!_

The shots don't stop until I get to eight. Eight tributes dead…eight faces I saw, feared, and understood over the past week. Coral and District 11's girl are among them; who else? Tethys? Fat chance…the little girl from District 10? Ames?

Autumn?

I take my pack off my shoulders, drawing my thoughts away from such morbid things as I check out what I have on hand. The rope's long and flexible, with at least five meters of the stuff at my disposal. That'll come in handy…the pack's also got plenty to take advantage of. A stubby survival knife with a blade maybe four or five inches in length (won't be much use against Crystal's sword…), a thick but small tarp the same color of the jungle canopy, a small first aid kit, a piece of flint (thank heavens for the fire-making station during training!), an empty bottle, and a length of metal wire make up its contents.

Huh. No food, no water…pretty sure the ocean water isn't drinkable, so where do I go for water? In recent Games, the Capitol's always been sure to provide water and food sources to ensure that kills come via combat, rather than through "boring" means such as dehydration. Either they're hiding water somewhere on the forest floor or on another island…or they've decided dehydration is fun again.

Either way, it means that I've got to keep moving.

I pack everything but my rope into the sack, shoulder it, and look out over the jungle canopy with a sigh. My stomach's calmed down from its bloody baptism to the arena, but things aren't going to get easier.

On the contrary, they're about to get a whole lot worse.


	14. A Beautiful Fear

It's hot down here – hot, sticky, and smelly.

I've finally gotten down to the jungle, but it's hardly a safe. The loud chirping of bugs, squawking of birds, and chirping of who-knows-what clog my ears with a steady stream of noise. It's almost as loud in here as back in the chariot parade – except I can stand these onlookers a little more.

_As if the Capitol's not watching_, a little voice in my head smirks. _Nah. You're too boring right now for the audience_.

My stomach rumbles at that. I haven't eaten since launch, and so far, the only things that have looked edible are the brown, hairy, nut-like things at the tops of some of the trees. I could climb one, I suppose…but better to keep moving. I want to get off this main island, head to one of the smaller ones. I figure the volunteers will stick around near the Cornucopia and consolidate their supplies; they won't want much to do with the outlying areas until they've exhausted their own turf.

_Fwap!_ A bright flash of color explodes in my face, soaring away as fast as a train. I stumble back, fearing the worst, but it's just a bird. In fact, it's a beautiful bird; as the animal takes to the air and dives into the thick canopy, I take in its red plumage and yellow bill. It's a subtle reminder that even here in an arena where everyone and everything would love to see me dead, there's still small things to smile at and enjoy.

It's like Omaha said: Take a few minutes each day to relax. If my head's in the right place, I'll be better prepared for whatever's up ahead.

I grip my knife a little tighter, pushing a leafy branch out of my way. Everything's green down here on the forest floor: The soft, smelly ground's covered in fallen olive vegetation, the trees are swathed in verdant leaves, and I've even seen many of the hordes of bugs that cover this place blending in with green carapaces.

Another itch on my neck reminds me of the _pain_ said bugs are. I suppose this jumpsuit I'm wearing is meant for the water, but it's virtually useless protecting against mosquitos and other, stranger insects. Already a dozen bites populate my neck, and I can only guess how many more will join them by sundown.

The only thing worse is the smell. All the decaying leaves on the ground have turned the jungle into a stink-pit; with the humidity attacking everything here, it's as if I've stumbled head-first into a swamp.

I push aside another bush, clambering over a fallen log and planting my hand on its trunk. _Squish!_ My fingers run into something soft and gooey, and I pull away in disgust.

"Yich!" I shout.

I've stuck my hand right into a colony of wriggling grubs. There's at least a dozen of the squirming white larvae, crawling up and down the rotting wood. Unfortunately for me, I learned at the edible insects station that these…_things_…are edible. They're loaded with protein I need to keep going, and it's not like I'll have to do any work to catch them. I need to eat and keep my energy up, but this is pushing it.

This is not my idea of fancy cuisine.

"Alright, Skye," I peek at the grubs before looking away, biting my lip in protest. "Just…just eat them as fast as you can…"

I breath in deeply, steel my resolve, and take a leap of faith.

_Splish!_

I scoop the fattest grub I can find and shovel it into my mouth, biting down as I hold my nose and close my eyes. It barely helps: Goop sprays everywhere as the foulest taste I've ever experienced infects my taste buds. My eyes bulge as I force the grub down, swallowing despite my stomach's lurching.

"God," I mouth. "It's like…like an eruption of pus everywhere. Ugh."

Know what? The jungle can keep its delicacies. I'm not eating any more of those.

"That's the worst thing I've ever eaten. Just awful," I announce for the audience that's no doubt focused on the girl from District 9 who's eating bugs. "Marvel at Skye as she devours grubs…live, and whole!"

Resolving to find more appetizing dining, I move on. I try to keep heading on a straight direction, but surrounded by green that seemingly goes on forever – with only hints of the blue sky above me peeking through the canopy – I could be going around and around in a circle for all I know. I've managed to stay hydrated by licking the humidity off leaves, but that'll only work for so long; I need to find a real source of water soon before this becomes a problem. Unfortunately, all the forest pools smell like outhouses; even large, flowering plants I've found with deep bowl-like pits contain water that looks about as refreshing as blood.

_Oh, bad thought_. I've only just managed to keep the scene from the Cornucopia out of my mind, but thinking about blood draws it all back. I sit down on a stump, laying my pack next to me and putting my face in my hands. Here am I thinking of the horrors of eating a grub…meanwhile, eight kids are already dead, and I could very well be next if my luck runs out and I cross paths with Crystal or Tethys. In the jungle, the nearest tribute could very well be a few steps behind me. I'd never hear them over this din, and seeing them ahead of time is a laughable notion. I can barely see five meters ahead.

"Stupid," I mutter into my hands. "I have to get out. Get to the shore…get out of here."

The jungle's a killing ground, and no doubt the Gamesmakers will be eager to lure tributes into head-to-head fighting in this dense brush. I'll have no time to run. Time to get moving again.

Before I do that, however, I've spotted a better meal: A thick, brown-and-black snake at least ten feet long crawls along the forest floor not a meter from my leg, headed towards a tree that rockets a hundred feet into the air. It's not getting away from _me_.

I pull my knife and grab a long stick nearby, careful to stay away from the snake's head. I have no idea if this slow-moving giant of a snake is poisonous, but I'm taking no chances. Just as the serpent begins to scale the tree, I jam the end of the stick into the base of its head and smash it into the soft ground.

"Urgh," I groan as it struggles. The snake's a lot more powerful than I expected, and I'm having trouble keeping it down.

My foot does a better job keeping the head down, but it's still bucking and giving me a run for my money. Quickly, I push my knife into its neck, doing my best to saw through the animal as fast as possible. I grit my teeth as blood spurts from the gash: The snake's so thick that my knife's having trouble getting through it. I close my eyes as tight as I can, pressing down on the knife and finishing the cut. The serpent's head rolls away, the mouth horrifically still working as it rests in the wet dirt.

I kick dirt over the disembodied head; the last thing I want is some phantom snake head coming after me at night. That sounds ridiculous, but given the Gamesmakers' propensity for throwing in all sorts of horrific mutts in recent Games, I'm not putting anything past them. I shove the shuddering snake body in my pack, resolving to actually _cook_ this catch. Hopefully that'll make it taste better than the grub; to be fair, almost _anything_ would taste better than that.

Hours pass as I trudge through the jungle. It didn't look this big from the Cornucopia mountain…which means I'm probably going around in circles. My mind wanders as I shove plants out of my way and hop over dead vegetation. I haven't heard a cannon since the bloodbath, so anybody who made it out of there alive has done well. If I'm way off course, by now, however…and no one else followed me down the cliff stairs…then am I heading straight into someone else, or am I still heading away from the others?

Hopefully the latter.

My diligence pays off. As canopy thins out and the jungle clears, I get a glimpse of the golden sun climbing down to a watery horizon. One of the smaller islands of the archipelago crescent reaches out before me, tempting me to sprint across a narrow sandbar bridge covered in shallow, knee-deep water. The ocean's as clear as the Training Center's crystal chandeliers here; the sand as white as paper and as soft as a pillow. It's too bad the Gamesmakers are spoiling this beautiful place on the Hunger Games; if it weren't for tributes hunting me down and the lack of water and easy food, I could probably learn to love this land.

Regardless, I have work to do before the sun sets.

I don't have time to actually build a shelter, but I can work something up quick with what I have. I find a grove of leafy trees on the boundary of the jungle and the sandy beach, picking out a thick branch that'll hold my weight. It won't be great night's rest, but it's not like the Gamesmakers are supplying beds anyway.

I drape my tarp over a higher branch in case it rains overnight – something I wouldn't doubt with this humidity – and begin the harder half of my evening's jobs. I need to make a fire to cook this snake…but finding dry wood or leaves in this place seems like a tall order. Where to start?

The dead wood on the forest floor's a good a place as any, and surprisingly, the inside of the logs aren't as wet and waterlogged as I would have thought. It takes some work for my small knife to collect enough wood that I'm satisfied with – and as the sun continues its march towards the horizon, I'm forced to compromise by grabbing some wetter, fresher material. I can only hope it'll catch.

As a red sunset tinted by royal violet reaches across the sky, my fire burns with the same intensity and hues on the edge of the beach. I'm behind enough cover that I won't be seen by anybody who's made it to the other island by now, and while the fresher wood's kicking up too much smoke for my liking, I'm betting that the twilight will cover my trace. I cook a length of snake on a thick branch, barbecuing the serpent as I stare into the fire. It's refreshing to have this bit of warmth and light as darkness overtakes me. The jungle depths would be horrifying dark in the middle of the night…dark and lonely. At least here on the beach, I can stare out into the wide expanse of the ocean. It's calming; relaxing, even – at least, as relaxing as anything can be in the Hunger Games.

The snake's not particularly good, but it beats the grubs in its meaty, tough texture. I stare off into the stars on my branch, biting small pieces of snake meat and gazing into the heavens. I can still pick out the constellations from here, even though many of them have moved across the sky and some have disappeared entirely. We're far from District 9, but I can still see Orion's belt – named for some hero long since forgotten, his constellation the only monument to his legacy. At least he got that: For 23 tributes every year, only grieving families will remember them.

No stars, no constellation: Only mourning.

I set half of the cooked snake back in my pack, not feeling particularly hungry. As I close my eyes, a soft _pit…pit..._distracts me.

So that's how the Gamesmakers are bringing fresh water. Rain.

"Ugh," I grunt. I have to act fast.

I grab several broad leaves from a nearby low-slung tree, curling two of them around a branch to make a channel into my water bottle. The others I press into the soft dirt beneath my branch, forming impromptu bowls to catch rain that drips off my tarp. It's not science, but it'll work for my purposes.

Trumpets sound over the rain and jungle, drawing my attention up to the sky. Time to see who's still alive.

The girl from District 3 pops up first: No surprise, everyone from 1 and 2 are still around. I guess Sulla and Tethys ended their duel in a draw. Coral from 4 pops up next, the surprise of the Games so far. Guess that means Lattice made it…whatever that guy from District 3's up to. Both from District 5 have fallen, joined by the boy from District 6 and the girl from District 8. Good, Autumn's still alive…wherever she may be. I'm still holding out hope that we can find each other in this arena, but given the jungle's density and the scattered islands, my hope's fading fast.

It's all I have at this point.

The boy from District 10 and the girl from District 11 – the one disturbingly cut down by Crystal – finish the death count. I pump my fist that the little girl from District 10's still around; secretly, I'm hoping that she'll make it out if Autumn and I both die here. On a more somber note, however, Ames is still alive. He's one I don't want to run into.

Eight down. Sixteen of us still running around in the arena.

The rain picks up as I try to drift off on my branch. Exhaustion overtakes me as the stars fade, covered by clouds and rain. The soft patter of precipitation and the constant beat of the waves on the beach lull me to sleep, taking me far away from this place…this beautiful, horrible, dangerous place that I've survived so far, this place that invites me to explore and threatens me with death.

It's exciting, terrifying, novel, and insane all in one deadly package. I've lived through my first day in the Hunger Games.

* * *

The rustle of leaves wakes me up as the night sky just begins to brighten, the rain still pouring down. I'm surprised I've slept through the entire night, but the prospect of an animal or something infringing on my motley camp doesn't excite me. I already have enough snake to last two days.

It's not an animal.

My sleepy eyes catch a glimmer of red right before a wiry boy emerges from the brush. I bolt upright, falling off my branch and reaching around for my pack. _Where is it?! Get it!_

"It would have been more prudent to have set up your camp inside the forest."

I look up. Lattice from District 3 is staring right at me, carrying the same short gladius that I learned to handle in training. His face is statuesque, reflecting nothing but a blank stare as he gazes at me. I pause, spotting my knife under my branch. It's just out of reach from my hand...if I can talk him down, could we make a team?

_Focus, Skye_, I tell myself as my heart threatens to rip my chest open. I'm terrified, petrified, my mind struggling to gain control as my bladder threatens to unleash the flood gates in fear. I feel my throat tensing up, my breathing growing faster and faster as Lattice takes a step forward.

_Oh God. Please don't kill me...Lattice...I'm not ready for this, I don't know what to do..._

"Unfortunately for your condition," he notes, his words like a cold machine as he rubs his forehead with his sword arm. "The laws of this game require I end you. Please don't struggle; I would like very much for this to be as simple a process as possible – for the both of us."


	15. Blistering Sky

Oh boy. This isn't good.

"Lattice," I get my feet under me, slipping to my right just enough so my fingers can grip my knife. "Lattice, wait. Just hold on…"

"You're not supposed to know my name," he says uncertainly.

The strange feeling I got from watching his Reaping hasn't gone away in the past week; facing off with him now, it's as present as ever. His words are too formal, his hands jerky and his walk halting. I don't doubt that he wants to kill me now, but will he? _Can_ he?

My mind whirls as I try to keep control of the situation. He's holding the sword limply, like it's a foreign object…if worse comes to worst, I can try knocking it out of his hand with my knife. If I can avoid any blood, however, I'll be a lot happier.

"Look," I wheel towards my pack, throwing a glance over my shoulder towards the next island. It's at least a half-kilometer through the shallow sandbar. "Look, Lattice – all those volunteer tributes? The kids from 1 and 2? They're probably teaming up to kill people like us. We shouldn't just kill each other…we need help if any of us can win. Right?"

His face contorts like he's grappling with some internal problem: "No. Only one winner."

"We'll have a better chance," I protest as I try to keep him on the defensive. "If we're on our own, we'll just get picked off. Please? We're not murderers. We're just trying to survive – you and I."

My hand blindly reaches along my pack in the darkness of the dawn, touching something long and scaly. Suddenly, I have a terrible idea – a horrible idea, but one that might get me out of here alive.

"Alliances always disintegrate," Lattice presses on, streams of rain running down his face in the downpour. I can just make out his confused eyes, darting about and refusing to make eye contact. "Only one winner."

He shakes his head, clearing rain from his eyes and looking down at the ground like he's ashamed: "I have to kill you. It is what I have to do."

"Just…just tell me," I stall for time, my hand getting a grip on the thick scaly rope in my pack. "Tell me…are you waiting for anyone at home? I am…and I know you are. You have to be. Please – just tell me, what would they think if you become a killer, just like those volunteer tributes?"

"No," he stammers, looking away. "Won't let you dis – "

Before he finishes, I rip the body of the dead snake out of my pack and hurl it at him with all my might. Lattice looks up just as the reptile hits him in the face. The boy panics, flinging his arms at the snake as tangles around his shoulders and neck. I can't waste any time: I don't know if I can outrun him, but I've caught him off-guard and vulnerable.

I don't have any choice. I'm sorry.

I spring from the soft earth, vaulting from my sleeping branch and leaping at Lattice as he struggles with the snake. Just as he rips the dead serpent away from his shoulders, I slash my knife straight at his sword wrist.

"_Yah!_" he screams, leaping back and dropping his sword. I've struck paydirt: Even in the low light, I can see glistening drops of blood mixing with the rain.

_The sword!_ I kick Lattice in the knee for posterity, switching my knife to my left hand and lunging for the weapon. Lattice sees it a split-second after I do, jumping after me and grabbing my hair. I cry in pain as my fingers miss the handle, just short of the weapon I could finish my attacker off with. Lattice yanks on my hair, sending waves of pain shooting across my head. In response, I kick my foot up, jamming my heel into his groin and eliciting a moan of agony from his lips.

_Good thing you're male…_

It's all the time I need. I lurch forward the final few inches to the sword, grabbing it in my right hand and jumping to my feet. Lattice is already up and coming at me – it's now or never.

I leap forward with my knife, acting as if I'll thrust it into his throat. He's quick, catching my arm in my action. That's what I needed, however: I throw myself forward, hurling my right arm at his gut with every ounce of effort I have.

"_Ouf_."

Lattice's eyes widen as I yank my arm back and separate from his grip. I'm afraid I've missed at first, but when I look down at my sword, it's covered in dark, viscous liquid. I panic, dropping the weapon in terror: Is that my blood?!

No; no, of course not. I've opened up a gash in Lattice's stomach that belches forth fluid. He staggers back, looking down at the wound I've inflicted with a mix of awe and horror. His hands shake, his wrist still dripping blood as he stumbles in the sand.

"That's not…" he stammers. "Not…"

I'm stuck, paralyzed: _I just stabbed someone. Right after I told him not to be a killer_. Now I'm the killer; Lattice's blood is on _my_ hands.

This wasn't supposed to happen. Oh God, this wasn't the way it was supposed to work.

Lattice has dropped to all fours, his hands clutching his guts as blood pours out onto the sand. He looks up at me, finally making eye contact with mournful eyes.

"Finish it," he whispers. "Do it."

I can't. I can't; can't do this, can't stab him again…can't do what he wants. No, no no no no…

I grab the sword, breathing quickly as I step back from my dying opponent. He moans in pain, falling to his side in the sand as I grab and shoulder my pack, leaving the snake body behind. I don't want anything to do with that thing…that serpent I used to help kill this boy.

_I am a killer._

"No," I whisper as I watch him. "What have I done?"

He watches me as I pick up my water bottle full of rain, backpedaling towards the shore. I can't stay here with him…can't stay on this island where I've spilled an innocent child's life. He may have wanted to kill me, but he had no less right to life than I did.

The sky blisters as I sprint towards the water and the sandbar. The sun explodes with a crimson scream above the horizon, raining rays of blood between the clouds, across the sea and shore. The rain lets up as I move as fast as I can across the shallow water, crossing towards the next island. I'm oblivious to danger, forgetful of all the ways the Gamesmakers may try to kill me with mutts or worse.

Right now, I'm the biggest danger here. I killed someone.

_Boom!_

The cannon sounds in the distance like a crack of thunder. I hear a _whuzz_ above me, spotting that horrible collection drone as it launches a grappler towards the shore. It snags Lattice's still body, scooping it into its stomach before rocketing away on engines with fire the color of the sky.

The boy I've killed is on his way home. His family will mourn him and remember the girl from District 9 who took his life…Skye, the murderer of a tribute from District 3.

* * *

My body's numb as I reach the next island. I trudge ashore as the sun begins to climb up in the sky, bringing back the heat from yesterday. It's not so humid here by the beach, and the jungle from the big island's been replaced with swaths of bamboo, mixed in and out of low-lying shrubs and the same tall trees with the hairy brown nuts. It's clearer, and I'll be able to see danger ahead of time.

Not like it matters. I sit down on the sand as soon as I come ashore, letting the calm ocean lap at my feet. My thoughts are taking me to a dark place, swimming in a gray much as I stare at the center island. I can see the Cornucopia from here, shiny and gold in the sunlight from its place atop the black mountain. It laughs at me from up there, taunting me, reminding me that for all the times I told myself I didn't have a chance or was too weak, here I am playing the same Games as every other tribute year after year.

I look down at the sword in my hand. It's a nice blade, but I'd love to just hurl it into the ocean. Throw it away, watch it wash out into the open ocean and forgotten forever. If I didn't need it to survive, I would.

The Hunger Games don't give me a choice, however. It's push on or die here like Lattice, turning his death into one more forgotten kill.

I turn away from the beach, heading inland into the heart of this smaller island. I'll make camp inside the tree line this time – I'm willing to bet no one else has made it out here yet, and having a look out onto the sandbar will give me a chance to spot danger before it finds me. I've got water now – thank goodness for that – but I'll need to find new food.

Food first, then shelter. Can't give anyone on my tail a sign that I've made it here.

No snakes here – not that I'd want one now – but plenty of bugs crawl across the bamboo and tall trees should I get desperate. Just to change things up, however, I'm going to try getting one of the hairy brown nuts down from the treetops. It'll be a tough climb, but if they're alright to eat, I won't have to hunt for anything again. These things are _everywhere_.

I set my pack down at the base of one of the smaller trees, cutting off a piece of my rope and wrapping it around my waist as an ad-hoc belt. I tie my sword to that so it won't go anywhere, plant my legs on either side of the tree, and begin my climb up.

_Oof_. The Gamesmakers just couldn't make this easy: There are no branches or handholds on these trees, and the only leaves are all the way at the top with the brown nuts. I'm forced to cram my arms and legs into the sides of the trunk, gritting my teeth as I slowly force my way up. It's only twenty of thirty feet to the top, but getting up takes much more time than I planned.

I'm up five to ten minutes later, inspecting the nearest brown nut with a curious eye. It's hard and covered in small, stringy hairs. Smaller unripe ones clump around the center of the tree, still green and firm in the tropical sun. Finally, however, a good sign: Something inside the nuts sloshes around as I shake them; is this another source of water?

I resolve to take three of the brown ones and three of the unripe green ones, using my sword to cut them down. Each falls to the ground with a _thud_, making an impact crater in the soft, smelly earth below.

Unfortunately, I can't just jump down thirty feet – and getting _down_ the barren tree trunk takes a lot more work than getting up it. I clench my jaw as I work my way down, my thighs burning as I hold on for dear life. A fall from here wouldn't end well, and lingering with a broken leg in the heat doesn't top my list of preferred ways to end the Hunger Games.

As soon as I'm down, I take my sword to the nearest brown nut. I hack away at the top of one: The thing's tougher than it looks, taking three blows from my sharp sword before the top hard layer finally gives way to a brown undercoat. Another few hacks at that and I'm through. The nut reveals its innards: A white, fleshy meat covers a hollow interior filled with a sweet-smelling liquid. I tip the nut back to my mouth, pouring myself a much-needed drink.

_Wow!_ After eating grubs and snakes yesterday, this nut is heaven. Sweet water caresses my mouth as I grunt involuntarily, tipping the nut back and drinking the entire thing in one go. I may regret that later, but right now, this is the best thing that's happened to me in the arena.

The meat's not as delicious, but it's crunchy and my stomach doesn't complain. I dump the rest of the nuts in my bag, pleased that I've scored a tasty meal that won't require a fire or hunting.

It's midday when I get back to my spot at the edge of the forest and the beach. I dump my pack at the base of a pair of trees, making sure I won't be spotted from the water as I think about how to set up a basic shelter.

Something caught my eye in the water, however. I go to take a second look, peering out between a bamboo grove to the shallow sandbar.

_Oh no!_ I'm not alone.

A boy in an aquamarine jumpsuit splashes through the surf, maybe fifty meters away from the shoreline. He hasn't seen me yet, but he'll be here soon – and this is no Lattice. I recognize Mako immediately from training; the tough volunteer boy from District 4 hasn't lost a step in the arena so far. Panic hits me, then confusion: What's he doing without his buddies? Considering that he's carrying a pack on his back and a cruel metal spear in his hands, he's certainly not returning from a hunt or anything. He's alone…and the volunteers must not be as coordinated as I think.

_That doesn't change the fact that he's going to maul you, Skye! He's twice your size! _

The voice in my head is right. As Mako approaches, I turn to grab my sack and run, preparing to dash as quickly as possible across this island and hopefully reach the opposite shore by sundown. I'll have to make for the next island as soon as I can; there's no way anybody has made it there yet.

Something odd happens, however. As Mako's thirty meters from shore, he stops like he's run into a brick wall. His hands shake for a moment, his mouth gaping open in shock. Like a statue shoved off its perch, Mako falls face-first into the water.

I freeze. _What's happening?_ There's nobody else here; no arrow, no spear, no thrown knife. He's not dead…just…

A ripple in the water catches me eye. It's far away, but it's big…and it's headed this way.


	16. First Contact

_What on Earth are you doing, Skye?! What are you doing?_

An angry voice in my head screams at me as I drop my pack, grab my sword, and run towards the water. Mako's still floating face-down in the water maybe twenty-five meters away from the beach; for all I know, he could be dead already. The disturbance in the water isn't slowing down, either.

I know why I'm running out into the water when I should be sprinting in the other direction, however: It's guilt. Guilt over killing Lattice; guilt that there's blood on my hands. It's guilt telling me that maybe, just maybe, I can find a little redemption by pulling this boy from likely death. Save a life to make up for taking a life.

My stupid feelings are going to get me killed.

I toss a quick glance towards the water. The ripples are becoming waves; larger, stronger, more powerful as they come closer. Mako's not far away now.

_What are you going to do with him once you get him to shore? _Good question. Haven't thought that far ahead; I'll take his spear since I can use that, but…do I just leave him on the beach?

I'll think it about it later. I reach the motionless boy, yanking him with all my might into a sitting position on the sandbar. Unsurprisingly, he's heavy and strong, his body well-toned as a volunteer tribute. He's tall enough that I can prop his upper body up out of the water as I press my fingers under his chin to check his pulse. Heart's still beating – he's still alive, as far as I'm concerned. Good: I haven't raced out here all for nothing. I snatch up his spear and grab his arm, preparing to drag him the thirty or so meters to shore when I'm terrifyingly interrupted.

_Boom!_

The water explodes next to me, throwing me to my knees in the shallow water. I spit out a mouthful of salty ocean, wiping my eyes as something _huge_ surges over the sandbar. A great black snake – no, not a snake; a leathery, oily ribbon with a spiky fin running the length of its massive body – dives back into the water on the other side of the sandbar. It's far larger than me, and given the speed it's turning about in the crystal-clear water, it's faster and stronger too.

I've got to hurry.

I won't leave my rescued quarry behind, however. I snatch up Mako's forearm, careful to keep his head out of the water as I yank and pull him towards the shore. The water's helping to keep him afloat, but he's still too big and heavy for my one hand with my other clutching his spear.

Just as I'm considering tossing the weapon aside, the giant ribbon creature returns. Finally I recognize it: We have these creatures – albeit much smaller – in the river that runs through District 9. It's an eel – one grown to tremendous proportions, sporting two red eyes of jelly that lock in on me as its next meal.

"This is not good," I mutter to myself, pulling on Mako harder. _Come on, you big oaf! Move faster!_

Not enough time. The eel turns once and speeds in from the deeper water, opening a huge mouth full of knives that can rip me in half with one bite.

The eel lunges as I jump to the side, just missing taking a chunk out of my leg. Water erupts like a volcano around me and I gaze straight into the eye of a demon. A black slit in the middle of the red globe regards me as food, not as a person. The eel's even more eager to kill me than these other tributes.

Better kill _it_ first.

I hoist the spear over my shoulder, screaming as I ram the blade into the eel's eye. Goopy green fluid explodes out all over me, a noxious smell like rotting flesh blasting my nose as the eel roars, rearing up and shouting into the sky. I flail in the water, staying on the sandbar and keeping on my feet. If that thing pushes me off into deeper water, I'm finished; between not knowing how to swim and facing an angered and still wriggling sea monster, I'll have no chance.

I grab Mako's arm again, lugging the boy the final few meters to the beach. Finally! I flip him over onto his side, scrape some of the eel's eye goo off my waist, and grab my sword.

Good thing: The eel's not done with me, and even though I'm back on solid ground, it's not giving up. It spots me with its remaining good eye, spinning about in the sea and charging forward. Then something strange happens. I hear the water start to crackle, like someone's frying an egg on its surface. I'm confused at first, startled – but then I remember where I've heard that sound before.

An electric fence runs along the outermost barrier of District 9, charged 24 hours a day. I've gone up to it, listened to the cracking and spitting of the electricity as it courses through the metal. It's a lethal way of the Capitol telling us to stay inside the District.

And I'm hearing it again now.

_The eel electrocuted Mako,_ I think in horror. _How is he still alive?_

Better yet, how did I get out of the water just in time to avoid the same fate?

No time to think, however. The eel lunges onto the beach as I step back, snapping at me with its jaws and roaring. Sand flies in my face as I back off, but the eel's persistent. I grab the sword off of my rope belt, jamming the point into its head. It snarls, thrashing about and tossing me aside like a rag doll. I've managed to hold onto my weapon this time, however – that's a start.

The eel's had enough. Leaving a trail of eye goop and blood all over the white sand, it slips back into the water, calling after me with throaty groans and roars. Red and green muck stains the shore, a trail of ooze spilling into a dark cloud that spoils the crystal water.

I slump down on the sand, dropping my sword and falling on my rear. That's time number two I've escaped death…it's getting way too hectic here in the arena. I've barely been here more than 24 hours.

My stomach gurgles in response. I flip over onto all fours, leaning into the surf and vomiting up the coconut I'd eaten earlier. My body hurls the adrenaline and energy out of me like a horrible cannon, and I can't do anything more than hold my stomach with one hand and let it happen.

Ugh.

I wash off in the water when I'm done, cleaning the vomit and eel gunk off of me. I must look like a mess in front of the cameras that are no doubt watching; as I haven't heard any cannons since Lattice died, the Games must be slow so far.

Hm. Maybe the visibility can net me some sponsors…

First, however, I've got to check out what I fished out of the ocean. I drag myself over to Mako, checking over District 4's tribute. He's still breathing, fortunately. I can only hope he's receptive to me pulling him out of the water…but if so, I have to wonder if he'd welcome teaming up. I did see him on his own, so apparently he wanted nothing to do with the other volunteers. Still…he's strong, no doubt, and his dirty blonde hair and chiseled features make him a looker. The Capitol'll no doubt like that.

I'll have a much better chance with someone watching my back, anyway. Lattice proved that last night.

I pull him over to the area I've picked out as a shelter inside the tree line, leaving him turned on his side to cough up any water. In the meantime, I have other things to attend to.

Back into the forest I go. I crack open and drink another brown nut before I do, scooping out and eating some of the pasty white meat. It's not enough to replace everything I just threw up, but it'll tide me over until I can arrange some sort of basic shelter for tonight. Already the sun's on the second half of its journey across the sky, and I can't see anything unusual far across the channel on the big island. It looks like I'm safe – for now.

The bamboo's nice and hollow, and I spend a good amount of time hacking down husks. I'll halve some of them when I get back to camp, using them to collect any water if it rains again during the night. I stuff some empty nut husks in my pack, figuring they'll make good bowls, and force myself to climb another one of the nut trees. It's a lot tougher after using so much of my energy surviving the eel, but it's worth it to collect a few more ripe nuts and some of the broad green leaves. I want something more comfortable than a branch to sleep on tonight.

Mako's still out as I return with my supplies. The channel crossing's still quiet. No sign of any other tributes – or eels, thankfully.

With the sun creeping down to the horizon, I scrape together some dry fallen leaves and dead wood from the tall trees. It'll make a nice fire later, hopefully concealed by the trees between the beach and I.

As I start chopping a bamboo log in half with my sword, however, a cough interrupts me.

I spin my head around. Mako's heaving on the ground, his back to me as he spits muck onto the soft dirt. I backpedal in a panic – _he'll be okay, right_? I can't assume that he _won't_ try to kill me, however; I scramble to the nearest tree I can find, planting my knees against its trunk and preparing to climb if need be.

Mako turns around at the noise, glancing at me with a look of annoyance.

"The Hell are you?" he asks before grabbing his forehead and grimacing. "Christ…it's like my head is splitting open."

I hesitate, my response meek and quiet: "I'm…Skye."

"Tells me a whole lot," he grumbles, closing his fist around a handful of earth. "Why am I lying in the dirt?"

"You…" I stammer. I have no idea how Mako's going to take the tale of the eel. "You fell in the water…and…"

"Look, I felt something half-kill me before I blacked out and woke up here," Mako replies, irritated. "Obviously you pulled me out of something, so I'm not going to fillet you. Just freakin' tell me."

"You're not gonna kill me?"

"You're the one with a sword on your belt."

I look down at the sword I left hooked on my rope. Fair point.

"A, uh…big eel shocked you or something," I say, letting go of the tree. "I kind of…fought it off and pulled you back here."

He scratches his head, looking down at the ground and back up at me: "Why?"

"I killed a boy this morning and felt bad about it," I stutter, answering truthfully. In my defense, I don't have much of a better excuse. "You were just…floating still out there. The thing was gonna eat you."

"Huh," he grunts in response, picking himself up and sitting back in the dirt. "Probably some sort of electric eel mutt. Alright. Where'd my spear go?"

"I stabbed the eel in the eye with it," I say, still holding onto the tree with one hand. "It…ran away with it."

"Look at you," he laughs. "You're the size of an anchovy and you've already supposedly killed a mutt and another kid. You're handy. Who was it?"

"The boy from District 3. He snuck up on me and I stabbed him. It wasn't my fault."

"Believe that," he mutters, looking around. "Well…Skye…since you apparently pulled me out of the fire, no need for violence. I'm gonna go my way, you can go yours. Wherever you're going. Thanks."

"Wait, wait, wait," I hold out my hands, gulping down nerves. Mako hasn't tried to kill me when he dwarfs me in size, and a guy with the honor to respect me saving his life is one I won't let simply run away. I need help in this arena; I've been lucky with Lattice and the eel, but the more lethal tributes still have the upper hand on me. "Look…we're both alone, and…and I was just thinking…"

Mako laughs before I can finish: "Are you trying to ally with me? I'm not really a team player, Skye."

"Well, if we're together," I push on. "If one of us got attacked like that again…we could do better, you know? It wouldn't be just luck, and one of us would have a better chance of winning. If we survive to the last few tributes, we can…go our separate ways then, I guess."

"Heh," he chuckles. "Persistent girl. You sound like you want some help in the arena; that's what it is, huh?"

I bite my lip, looking at the ground before nodding slowly: "Yeah."

"You might be going after the wrong guy if I already crossed paths with death," he says self-deprecatingly. "But I'll humor you. You bailed me out; I'll bail you out. Seems fair. Here are my rules: If we make it to the last four tributes, we shake on it, and then we split. All bets are off after that. If you change your mind about not killing me between now and then…well, I'll defend myself, simple as that. That work with you?"

Mako's my best choice. If he can help me last to the final four, I'll be in a much better situation than I was facing before: "Alright. That's fine."

He tosses his handful of dirt to the ground, looking over at my pile of nuts: "Well, guess I should stop sitting around, then."


	17. Understanding

_**A/N: Thanks for the ongoing reviews, charliesunshine and AlbinoSheep3! Means a lot to have feedback and readership!**_

* * *

"So what'd you say these brown nut things are again?"

"Coconuts. You've never seen a coconut?"

"No. I live in District 9…we don't have trees like that."

"Well gee. At least I know what wheat is. You need to get out more, Skye."

The morning sky peeks in between palm trees and bamboo groves as Mako and I make our way across the island. It rained again last night, filling up my water bottle and giving us a much-needed drink. Another girl died last night, too…the girl from 6, wiping out that district from contention. 10 dead; one by my hands.

Mako insists we circle around the island to make our way towards the smaller one at the end of the crescent archipelago. He's busy sharpening the end of a bamboo pole with my knife, turning it into a cheap spear. I don't know how useful that's going to be, but I watched him enough at the trident station during training to know he's a good fighter. That's enough of an endorsement for me.

"Why were you coming this way, anyway?" I ask him as we walk down the island, staying in the shore so that the surf washes away our footprints. "Were the other volunteers back at the main island?"

"They probably still are. Saw Sulla killing a few kids back at the Cornucopia, and I doubt they'll want to leave the supplies," Mako shrugs. "But I was trailing some other kid headed this way. Figured I'd chase her out to the far island, off her, and then set up camp for a few days. Collect enough food to last a while, make sure I've got everything I need…Hell, it's like this arena was made for me. Beach, ocean, fish? It's like District 4 all over again. Why team up with Crystal, Sulla, and the others when I'm fine on my own?"

"Who was the kid you were trailing?"

"Oh, it was the girl from District 7. Didn't seem like much of a challenge."

I stop, my mouth ajar. Autumn's still alive…and Mako was hunting her?

"You're sure she was coming this way?" I ask.

"Yeah," he gives me a puzzled look, stopping his spear carving in mid-cut. "Why's that matter to you?"

"She was my – " I stop before I say "friend". Were we really friends? I only knew Autumn for a few days, yet I feel obliged to find her if she's on the island and nearby. She agreed to team up with me when no one else would. I can't just abandon her. "We were going to ally in the arena. I never could find her."

Mako gives me a long, silent look. He narrows his eyes, and I can only imagine what he's thinking: _This girl's going to betray me as soon as she finds her ally. Two-on-one._

"She's nice," I plead, giving him the most innocent expression I can. "She gave me a chance."

"Yeah? And what if she decides to stop being nice in the middle of the night?" Mako scoffs. "There any other little allies you want to mention?"

"No. Just Autumn…please, Mako; you said it yourself, she's not all that physically tough anyway. She's smart enough and she can help us. I don't want to go back on my word after I told her I'd team up with her."

He sighs, sticking his bamboo pole into the ground and staring off into the distance: "Told myself I wouldn't go picking up strays. Here I am…once again, not listening. Fine. But if this girl…Autumn…so much as sticks a weapon in the wrong direction, I'm not taking any chances. Got it?"

"Yeah," I agree, playing with the hem of my jumpsuit. "Thanks, Mako. It means a lot."

Silence settles in as we continue our walk down the beach. I've irritated him, no doubt; Mako's lone-ranger personality doesn't fit well with my want for allies in this arena. He may find himself right at home with the ocean and the palms, but I still need help. I won't abandon Autumn…and she's smart enough to help me survive. If Mako and I find her – and we make it to the final four tributes – then I'll be forced into a nasty situation. Having to attack and kill former teammates doesn't sound like a good time.

The Games still have to work through a number of tributes before then, however. I'll worry about that later; right now, I just want to keep Mako and I on the same page.

"You were...talking with the other volunteers during training, right?" I pipe up after a while. "The District 1 and 2 kids? What were they like?"

"Pretty brutal," Mako grunts, inspecting his bamboo spear's point. "Don't ask me anything about the girl from 2; she wasn't talking to no one. Her district buddy Sulla's a piece of work. Fast, strong…everything you want in a body, but I can only hope he's making the plans. Kid's as dumb as a rock. The two from District 1 are smarter, but it wouldn't surprise me one bit if they stab each other in the throat. Buncha cutthroats."

"Is that why you didn't stay with them?"

"Yeah, right," he snorts. "Well, actually…I _would_ have to be brain-dead to team up with them. But I already told you; I usually don't like teams. You get a pass because I'm not fish chow thanks to you. Now let me ask _you_ something: Why all the damn questions?"

"I just wanna get to know you."

"Well aren't you friendly," he grumbles, gazing off into the forest. "Alright, I got another one. I thought you just wanted help when you asked to team up. Now you want this Autumn girl. What's your obsession with alliances?"

"It's not an obsession," I reply, kicking a piece of driftwood into the surf. "And I do need help."

"Cut the act. Most tributes would have left me to die. I'm not buying 'help' when we'd never even talked before; for all you know, I would have jumped up and strangled you to death. I'm not buying the 'guilt' thing over killing the boy from 3, either. This is the Hunger Games. Almost everyone dies. What are you really playing at?"

"Really? Why all the questions?" I toss back at him. I'm on the defensive under his verbal attack; he's diving into places I don't want to mention.

"You said it. I just want to get to know you," he retorts.

_Jerk_. "Fine. Why do I like making a team? Because we're all alone in this arena, hacking and killing each other like animals. We're just kids, Mako. I watched that 12 year-old from District 10 and saw how scared she was during training; what do you think I'm feeling? What do you think everyone who…who _doesn't_ come from a rich and powerful district like you thinks? This isn't just some game to us. This is about whether we can go home; about if we can even have someone with us when we die. No one deserves to die alone; not like this."

He doesn't stop or contemplate what I've said, nor does he show remorse. He simply laughs.

"Oh," he remarks. "You think everyone from District 4 is rich and famous, huh? We're all glamorous tributes…all of us clones of Finnick Odair or his obnoxious golden-boy son, Triton, who's a shoe-in to win the Games whenever he's Reaped? Is that what we are to all of you?"

"No, Mako, I'm just – "

"I know exactly what you meant. Guess what, Skye? Some of us in the 'rich and powerful' districts don't get to live a life of luxury," he spits on the ground. "Some of us have to grow up early. Some of us have to train for the Games and volunteer, because it's that or living like crap for the rest of our lives, beneath the heel of all those better-off people in District 4 who couldn't give a _shit_ about us 'little people.'"

"Mako, I – "

"So if you want to know why I'm a loner," he interrupts me. "It's because I've watched for years as people haven't given a damn about each other. Whether it's someone like Crystal here in the Games willing to knife everyone in the back to the 'finest victor of District 4' Finnick, my own _mentor_ in these Games who spends all his time in the Capitol's spotlight and blatantly ignores the shadows of my district, nobody cares."

I'm silent for a minute before I speak up meekly: "I care."

"Well, maybe that's why we find ourselves in a team," he snorts. "Because someone actually gave a shit about me. That's a first."

Mako laughs, picks up a rock, and hurls it into the ocean: "Well…guess I just doomed any chance of getting sponsorship gifts from my district, huh? Ah, screw it. Although Coral's dead, so maybe Finnick'll _have_ to send them our way. I couldn't stand that stuck-up girl; glad she's a goner."

I've seen Finnick Odair, the middle-aged victor of the 65th Hunger Games, on television plenty of times through Games I've watched in the past. Mako's right about the man's flair for attracting the spotlight, but I have to wonder just how much my ally's trumping up his mentor's narcissism. Is it Finnick's self-importance he hates…or his popularity?

Regardless, at least I've gotten him to open up. It may not have been pretty, but I _do_ want to know more about my ally. We're going to be working together in this thing, after all.

Something catches my eye off in the forest edge. I trot in from the beach, spotting a gaping black opening in the earth that exposes a rocky, crumbling passage into the abyss. The logical part of my brain screams with warning signs: It's clearly a Gamesmaker trap of some sort, looking to lure tributes into easy deaths underground. My feelings, on the other hand, want a closer look: Who knows what could be lurking down there, ready to reward exploratory tributes?

As always, the feelings win.

"Look at this," I call over to Mako, peering down into the cave system. "Some sort of tunnel."

"Probably filled with mutts," he muses. "100% odds it's a trap."

"What if there's something good in there, though?" I question. "Could be worth checking out."

He looks at me with half-closed eyes, a wry, sarcastic grin spreading across his face: "You just can't help but exploring, right? I'm not gonna be able to talk you out of this."

"Probably not, no."

"What have I gotten myself into?" he asks rhetorically. "Fine. Lemme go make a torch so we're not running around blind, then we can dive in."

Mako hacks another bamboo stick down, cutting the end of the sprig into four points. He's handy: With a piece of my wire, dried vegetation and coconut husk, and some sap from a low-lying fern, he rigs up a bright-burning torch in no time.

No fire-making training station necessary.

"You've got the sword," he smirks, ignoring the bamboo spear in his off-hand. "Congratulations – you get to go first. Try not to run ahead into the great beyond here."

"No faith," I rebuke playfully, pulling my sword out of my rope belt and staring into the fire-lit cavern. "Relax. It'll be fun; we're exploring."

Clearly, _his_ mentors never told him to enjoy part of the day like Omaha told me. I'm just taking things a little further than the "15 minutes" I was instructed…besides, exploring makes me feel like a real, competent tribute, rather than someone stomping around the beach like an idiot with coconuts in their pack.

"I bet fighting eels is fun to you, too," Mako rolls his eyes. "Alright, explorer. Lead on."


	18. The Cave

_Drip, drip, drip_.

Salt water drips down onto sloping rocks as I make my way down into the dark cave. I keep my free hand out in front of me, reaching to grab walls and stones to keep my balance as my feet slide on the slippery ground. It smells worse than the big island's jungle down here; it's like something died a long time ago and has sat around rotting in the past few months. Shadows dance around the black rocks, lit up by the orange fire of Mako's torch as he gingerly trudges after me.

"Why am I letting you make the decisions?" he complains as I almost lose my footing for the tenth time. "This is a terrible idea."

"Don't worry. I'm great at coming up with terrible ideas," I muse, squinting into the darkness.

"Yeah, I got that feeling on my own. Jeez, it _reeks_ in here."

I step out onto an unstable rock, slipping down and losing my footing. I tumble back with a shriek, landing on my backpack with a _thud_ as the rock goes clattering off into the void.

"Safety first, kids," Mako snorts.

"Your commentary is much appreciated," I grunt, picking myself up and dusting off my rear.

"Simply making intelligent conversation," he replies reaching his torch over my shoulder and into the dark. "We probably coulda used some before we dove in here."

I reach out again, sticking my hand right on top of something slimy and moving on the walls.

"Ah!" I scream, jumping back into Mako. "I just touched something gross!"

"Then you should probably stop touching your face," Mako jokes, shining the torch at the wall. "Heard it spreads disease."

"Really?" I reply exasperatedly. "Thanks a lot."

"I try. Look at the size of this thing!"

His torch light illuminates the largest worm I've ever seen. The white, thread-like creature is at least three feet long, slithering along cracks of running water in the rock wall. I back away in horror; no doubt the Capitol audience is having a good laugh at my revulsion.

_If they're not grossed out, as well…_

Not Mako, however: "I bet this is really rich in protein. You want to eat it?"

"No!"

"You sure? I bet it – "

"No! Let's just go."

He laughs, kicking a rock into the darkness as I push on down a small cave stream. The smell's getting stronger the farther we descend into the void, the stench of rotting things growing unbearable. Just as it feels like I'm going to pass out in disgust, I step right into something squishy and firm.

I pull back immediately, holding my sword out in front as Mako aims the torch down. Lying in the dark cave water is something I sure didn't expect.

A decaying human body reaches out with empty eye sockets, a gaping mouth yawning into the inky blackness. Its skin has nearly melted off from the water and a strange, translucent, dried-out white paste that covers most of its body, anchoring it to the ground. Two other bodies lie nearby in similar states of decomposition; clearly, these unlucky travelers were knocked off a while ago.

_More likely_, a somber voice in my head speaks up. _The Capitol left them here to die, and you've just found them. Lucky you_.

Mako bends down, kicking the first corpse with his foot: "These…aren't all that old. But there's something wrong with them; look at this. See this one's head over here? It's too big for a person; all stretched out in the back. Arms are too long and thick for a normal person. It's like someone tried to make a human being and screwed up."

My heart races, beating at a thousand times a minute as Mako looks over the bodies: "So…what are you saying?"

His response chills me: "Mutts."

"A _human_ mutt?" I recoil. "No. That's never happened."

"Doesn't mean it can't," he says, standing back up and looking around the area. "How exciting do you think eels are for the audience, Skye? They've all seen it before. The Gamesmakers need a new way to shock everyone; why not raise the stakes? It's not like they're in the arena."

"So what are you saying?" I ask, my voice rising in pitch.

"I'm saying," he answers slowly. "That they led us into a trap."

He points his torch towards the wall, lighting up a sturdy, stout wooden box sitting on the ground: "Looks like you were right. There are supplies…because the Capitol _wanted_ us to come this way. Little excitement for their viewers; we just did exactly what they wanted."

From the slow, steady way he speaks, I can tell Mako doesn't mean _we_ but _you_. It was my idea to come down here, after all. It was my idea to look for more supplies.

"Then let's see what's in that," I say, trying to make up for the blunder. "Then we can get out."

"Doubt it'll be that easy. But sure…why not."

I yank on the box's lid, but it's held tight. I can see why: The hinges have rusted over, and the heavy lid's stuck down. Mako trades the torch for my sword, heaving the weapon over his head and slamming it down on each hinge with a loud _Clang!_

A loud, strangled gasp echoes up from somewhere ahead in the darkness. Mako and I both dart our eyes into the void, looking for movement.

"We're not alone here," Mako said. "Take the sword; keep me cover as I dig through this thing."

I thrust the torch into the darkness, but illuminate nothing but more black. We're on some kind of ledge, with the water underfoot running down a small fall into lower rocks.

"Flares," Mako grunts behind me as he roots around in the box. "Might come in handy."

"Gimme one and take the torch," I reply. "It's starting to die."

He tosses a small, red cylinder in my direction, and I take the cap off. I've seen this things in District 9; the wealthier landowners like Shrike's parents will use them to light up vast areas of land at night at the sound of dangerous noises. The electric fences around the district can only ward off _some_ predators – and only the animal kind. District 9's landowners will defend their turf against poorer, desperate folk looking for a scrap of food, and the Peacekeepers have no problem with it.

I ignite the flare before handing the torch off to Mako, letting my bright, hissing red light spread across the cavern. The cave's much more sinister in the crimson hue, every pointed rock and sharp crag reaching out to hurt me. I inch to get a look over the side, trying to figure out where the gasp we heard earlier came from.

"Ugh, that's moldy as Hell," Mako croaks from behind me. "A dirty towel? What am I going to do with that…oh _sweet_, is this what I think it is? I love the Gamesmakers. Forget about anything I've said otherwise."

I ignore my companion's rambling, holding my flare out and lying down on the wet ground. I peer just over the lip of the ledge, spotting more of the murky white glue holding down the bodies up here. More supplies, maybe? I don't know what Mako's so happy about that he found in the box, but I'll take anything I can get.

"Skye, check this out. It's a freakin' liter bottle of gasoline, I think. They use this stuff to power some machines back in my district; get it to close to the fire, and _boom!_"

"Wait a second," I say, squinting into the dark.

Something's moving down there. I turn back, making sure I'm wedged into a position where I won't slip before leaning just an inch further over the ledge. I free my arm up to my shoulder, careful to hold onto my flare as I shine light down into the dark.

What I find _isn't_ what I expected.

A small person's wriggling around twelve feet below me, caught in a mass of crusted-over white goop that covers her from shoulder to toe. It's a girl, young – probably not any older than me at most, and too small to get out of the mess she's gotten herself in. I first think it's the 12 year-old girl from District 10 right before the girl looks up at me with wide, frantic eyes.

It's Autumn.

My ally from District 7 panics as she sees me, not recognizing who's found her as she fights to get free. She's unarmed, equipped with no supplies beside a burnt-out torch stuck in a pool of the goop– she'll never get out on her own.

"Autumn!" I cry. "Wait, wait! It's me! It's Skye!"

She stops, going still as she looks up at me again: "Wha – Skye? How'd you…find…"

Autumn breaks down in tears at the bottom of the gully as Mako comes up behind me.

"Ah, fuck," he grunts.

"Ah!" Autumn screams as she sees him, jolting the sea of goop she's stuck to.

"No, wait!" I intervene. "He's my ally! Mako, this is…"

"Yeah, I heard you when you were screaming at each other," he sighs. "This is a bit more of a literal mess than I had in mind."

"I'm stuck in this," Autumn cries. "I fell when I was trying to hide in here. Please…help…."

"Can you move your hand?" I shout back, grabbing the rope out of my pack. "Can you grab this if I toss it down?"

She wriggles her wrist just a bit – enough for me.

"Take hold when I throw the rope down," I tell her, turning back to Mako. "Do you think you can pull her up?"

"If this stuff is strong enough to trap someone," he bites his lip. "Maybe? Hard enough kicking these bodies out of it. I realize she's not really very strong, but..."

"Have to try," I interrupt him. "Alright, Autumn."

I tie a knot in the end for her to grab and swing the rope off the end of the ledge. I'm careful not to swing it right into the goop; something tells me we don't have much time to waste in here. After a little navigation, I manage to hit her right in the hand with the knotted end. She clenches her first around it, wriggling to loosen up the muck as much as possible.

"Pull," I tell Mako, yanking on the rope myself.

He rolls his eyes, knotting the rope around his hand and tugging with all his might. The rope's strong, but even Mako's stymied by the strength of the glue that grips to Autumn's body like a vice.

"Jeez," Mako exclaims. "What's this shit made of?"

"Can you pull harder?" I look back.

"Oh, I thought I'd pull softer. Right," he sneers sarcastically.

Mako looks around, spotting a sturdy rock jutting out of the wall nearby. He takes his end of the rope, curling it about the rock like a pulley and securing it into a crook. Before I can wonder what he's doing, he tosses the dying torch straight onto the crusty goop Autumn's stuck in.

"What are you doing?!" I shout in panic as Autumn's eyes widen.

"Running out of options," he snorts.

The goop's certainly flammable. It catches in an instant, lighting up the bottom of the crevice with light as Autumn shrieks in fear. The goop loosens, however – I can see chunks of it curling and burning around her, slopping off in melting, blackening wedges to the ground.

"Hope she's got a good grip," Mako remarks, walking back to the rope and yanking on his makeshift pulley with all his might.

_Success!_ I see the rope start to move as Autumn yelps in pain down below.

"You okay?" I shout down the crevice.

"It's just a rock," she pants, her eyes darting around as the spreading fire inches closer. "Scratched me. Hurry!"

"Don't want to burn to death in flaming goop?" Mako muses sarcastically. "I thought that was every girl's dream."

He throws his weight into it, leaning back by the supply box and gritting his teeth in frustration. Autumn lets out another pained cry as he slowly drags her loose from the glue. Slow progress is better than none, however, and I lean over the edge to grab her wrist as soon as I can.

"There's something else down here," Autumn looks down into the dark, crusty goop crumbling off of her as Mako pulls her up the fall. "I just saw something pale moving around."

"Gimme your hand," I tell her. "Reach up with your other arm if you can."

She tightens her grip on the rope, swallowing hard and throwing her other hand up. I grab hold as Mako tears her feet free of the glue on the ground, pulling her up and out of the crevice and onto the ledge. She collapses on the rocks, still covered in copious amounts of dried glue that haven't charred and sloughed off. Mako drags the rest of the rope up behind, looping it around his shoulder, collecting his spear, and tossing me the pack. He's stuffed just about everything he's found inside; it's far heavier than I remember.

"Thanks," Autumn breathes, still panting heavily on the ground. "I was stuck there for a while."

"The Hell'd you even come this way?" Mako grunts. "Or are you as dumb as we are?"

"Someone was chasing me on the other island," Autumn replies, caressing a long, bloody red streak on her side left from a rock below. "It looked safe to hide."

I throw a frustrated look towards Mako, who glances off in the distance innocently. _Way to go, ally_.

"I don't want to spend another minute in here," he changes the subject. "Time to leave."

I toss one last look over the ledge – and as I do, I realize we're not going to have time to escape. Something large, slimy, and white crawls out of the darkness, a powerful, limber mutt like nothing I've ever seen before. It's hungry, and it's looking for a tribute-sized meal.

Mako's right. I led us right into a trap…and the Gamesmakers have raised the stakes this time.


	19. Darkness

"Guys?" I say hesitantly, backing up slowly from the ledge. "We need to go…we need to go _now_."

Mako flashes a glance over the edge, catching sight of the pale stalker as he does so: "Oh _lord_. Let's go – if you fall behind, I'm not stopping for you!"

I let my gaze linger for just a moment on our latest hunter. This…_thing_…mutt, maybe, could have once been a man in some horrible, hellish land. It crawls on four lengthy, bony, skinny limbs towards us, approaching the fall edge and sniffing about like a hound. I don't know _where_ it smells from: The mutt's head looks like an oversized, stretched-out human cranium, but its only visible aperture is a wide, gaping mouth full of razor blades and dripping a constant stream of the gooey glue that held Autumn down. Two smaller, bladed arms jut out from its chest, like some mad scientist crammed forks into its pectorals. It's easily got at least a foot in height over Mako if it stood up, slathered in the slimy resin from head to toe; it's like someone mashed a human together with a nightmare, painted it pale, and tossed it in the cave.

I don't want to see it in action.

"Right behind you," I say, backing away and turning tail.

Just as I've said it, a horrible noise echoes from behind me. It's some sort of battle howl from the human mutt, but it's not a cry of anger. It sounds like dozens of people in pain, moaning in agony – as if the mutt recorded the sounds of its victims and is playing them back at us.

_It probably is, Skye_. Oh, the horror…

I break into a sprint, following Mako's outstretched flare as I struggle to see rocks and crevices. The red light from the flare isn't making anything easier; if anything, it's turned the horror of what's behind us into something all the more terrifying, its approach saturated in a sinister crimson hue.

Autumn keeps up a step behind me as Mako picks up the pace. We struggle to keep up as the tortured cries behind us grow louder and louder, the sound of scrabbling, slime-covered feet sprinting closer.

"Flare's dying," Mako yells from up ahead. "Hurry the Hell up!"

I throw another looking behind me as I scramble over a wet boulder. The dimming light's making it hard to see, but I can spot something glistening just on the edge of visibility. The mutt's biding its time; I don't know how it managed to get up the ledge that fast and close the distance between us, but we don't have long.

Disaster comes with another turn in the cave tunnel. I slip on a wet patch of rock, stumbling into the ground as Autumn zips by. She doesn't notice, caught up in her own flight, and I'm quickly thrown into darkness. _Blind…and alone._

I toss off my pack, my right hand clutching my sword tightly. Something's breathing in here…something close, something lurking. Far up the tunnel, I can hear Mako shouting at Autumn – but I can't make out the words. I'd yell out my predicament, but something tells me they won't get here fast enough. I'm on my own for the moment…and I can only hope Mako wasn't serious when he said he'd leave me behind if I couldn't keep up.

Everything goes silent. I can only hear my breathing as I slowly bend down, hoping to open my pack up and grab one of Mako's salvaged flares. I don't know where he put them, but I don't have any other choice: Getting out of here without light will be impossible.

My eyes dart around as I grope for my pack. I can't even see my hands in the darkness. Every tiny flicker of sound sends my heart racing; how good is that mutt at seeing in the dark?

_Finally!_ My hand touches the fabric of my pack and I reach up for the zipper. Slowly, quietly, I pull it back to expose the inside of my pack, slipping my hand into the supplies to search for a flare. Wire, first aid kit, a ragged cloth – no, not that; I don't need that. There we go – my fingers wrap around a small cylinder that can only be one of the flares.

Something moans to my left in the darkness. I inhale sharply, staring blindly into the void at…nothing. Nothing but the black.

_Mako, Autumn, where are you guys…_

I pull the flare out of my pack, quietly zipping it back up and slipping it over my shoulders. I stand as silently as I can, careful not to make too much noise as I pluck the cover off the flare's cap. My fingers slip as I open it, losing the cap as it slides off the cover.

_Clack!_

I freeze. Something howls – a hideous, horrible sound – and the rattle of scrabbling feet intensifies.

_Hurry, Skye!_

In a panic, I smash the flare's igniter against the wall, sending up a blast of sparks and heat and a firework of red light. If the mutt couldn't see me before, it sure can see me now. When I look around, however, it's nowhere to be seen: Rocks and dirty salt water greet me, an empty chamber bathed in an ominous glow.

"Mako!" I shout to the caves. "Autumn? Where are you?"

_Crack!_ A rock skitters across the wall to my left, knocked down from high above me. I thrust the flare up, looking into a ceiling tunnel running up and behind me towards where I came from. The mutt knows I'm here. It's stalking me, biding its time, waiting for an opening when I won't see it coming.

I hold my sword out defensively, backpedaling to what I can only hope is the way out. In the darkness I became disoriented: For all I know, I'm headed back down towards the ledge and the decaying bodies again.

_Splat!_

A glob of goo splashes to the ground at my right. I swing my sword wildly, hitting air and seeing nothing. A spot of the white, glue-like resin sticks to the floor, however. I turn back around, hoping I'm going the right way.

Instead, I meet my adversary.

The mutt screams at me, its horrifying, slimy, eyeless face not a foot away from my own. I shriek and jump back, dropping my flare to the ground and sending shadows scampering around the room like circling lions. The mutt contorts its head around in a way that would break my neck, leaping off from its crouched spot on a rock and slamming me with one of its legs. The blow knocks the wind out of my lungs and throws me back, hurling me painfully into a wall.

The mutt's jaw nearly dislocates, extending to a horrific size and howling with the cries of the dying as I stare down its slimy pale gullet. It crab-walks on all fours up to me, pinning my left shoulder to the wall with a powerful, slime-covered hand, and giving me a close-up look at my enemy.

It's Hell itself. The mutt's face is translucent up close, with an armored, cartilage-like covering overlapping what can only be described as a human skull underneath. Whatever's been done to turn someone into this…this…_abomination_…is beyond words.

I swing my sword at the mutt in a last-ditch attempt to save myself, slashing the blade into the creature's arm. It howls in pain and leaps back, viscous scarlet blood sloughing out of the wound. I leap to my feet, grabbing my flare from off the ground and prepare to bolt in the nearest direction when the mutt recovers.

It coils up on its hind legs and leaps like a bull, plowing into the back of my head with its long, watermelon-like cranium as a ram. I fly face-first into a pile of dirty water, spitting up salt as I scramble to turn over. The cave blurs in the red light, swimming with color as pain pounds through my head. I look around – what's going on? What –

The mutt. Right. Wait…

Pale mutt. Like a twisted person. Remember that part. Where'd it –

A flash of pale white smashes into my chest, ripping the sword out of my hand and snarling an inch from my eyes. I can't make out much beyond a blurring mess of glistening white just as a long, green pole smashes into the mutt's abdomen.

The mutt howls in pain from the latest attack – Mako's bamboo spear. He hasn't left me to die!

Mako sprints past me, grabbing my sword and flare from the ground and swinging the flaming red light in the mutt's terrible face. The creature snarls and snaps its jaw, bounding back on its hind legs. A girl with brown hair rushes up to me, bending down and grabbing hold of my hand.

Oh, right. Autumn. We got Autumn back. Yay.

"Skye?" Autumn breathes frantically, trying to pull me up. "Skye, c'mon! We have to go!"

"I'm confused?" I murmur, Autumn's face fracturing like a kaleidoscope. "I thought you were in a cave."

"I'm fine; come on Skye!" Autumn pleads.

The mutt's had enough of Mako by this point. It darts beside his swing of the sword, rearing up on two legs to seven or eight feet in height. It throws a quick jab into his chest, slamming him back and sending him flying before descending on Autumn. She shrieks, jumping back as the mutt grabs her by the throat with a slimy hand.

"Hey," I say, my words slurred. "Get away from her, you bastard!"

I kick the mutt in the stomach with my leg, sending a fresh wave of pain pounding through my head. The creature tosses aside Autumn like a rag doll, losing interest in my ally and dropping down on all fours above me. I shield my eyes from the terrifying thing – there's little I can do as it exhales hot gas in my face, slimy white goop dripping into my hair and onto my chest.

The mutt roars in anger, grabbing my face and forcing my head back. I try to block out the slimy grip of its fingers, pushing off with my legs just as the creature thrusts one of its smaller bladed arms into my right shoulder.

_Sprunch!_

"_Ah!_" I scream in pain as the mutt pulls back.

It shrieks back at me just as Mako retaliates, plunging the sword into the creature's back. I gasp in agony, looking down at a bloody, shredded hole in my shoulder. White goo rings the wound as it weeps blood, leaking down all over my jumpsuit and arms. _Oh heavens…what is this…what is happening…_

Mako pulls the sword out of the yelping mutt, jamming down the blade into its neck for a second blow. Autumn runs up with the flare as he withdraws the blade, ramming the fiery cylinder into the wound as the creature wails and screeches. My eyes flicker back and forth from the mutt to my shoulder – one's bleeding profusely, and the other's…bleeding profusely.

Oh no. No, no…

The mutt arcs its back, throwing my two allies off of it in a howl of pain. It's outnumbered and wounded – the battle's over, and lunch isn't served. The creature scrambles down onto all fours, bounding off into the darkness and leaving a slimy trail of blood and mucus behind it. Mako swears softly, picking up a rock and hurling it into the darkness after the creature. Autumn grabs his arm, her words slurring in my ears – something about blood? Something about…oh yeah, there is a lot of blood.

Lots. My head hurts.

"_Tuk da flur,_" Mako says – or something like that. His mouth moves, but I can't make out the words. "_Ima curr hurawt."_

He picks me up in his arms as Autumn grabs the flare and the sword – sure nice of him, considering I'm bleeding on his clothes. I hope he can wash those.

"My head hurts," I mutter to him, resting my face on his bicep. "It's swimmy."

"_Jush shuddup_,"he replies.

"Don't tell me to shut up!" I retort. "I'm just sitting here!"

His face blurs in my eyes as white cotton surrounds my view. My shoulder hurts, too. The blood's probably making it hurt; I wish it'd just go away.

Soon everything goes away, washed into a sea of white that overcomes me. I fall away from the cave, dropping into some nether region deep in the recesses of my mind.

It's a lot quieter.


	20. Skye and Mako

_Shadows, spectres, and mist float before me, spinning and cartwheeling like ghastly phantoms across a sepia backdrop. I wander through the empty void around me, an observer to all things immaterial. This is not the arena; at least, it is no arena I have ever seen. Here terrible, soulless things are crafted and formed before being sent into a world where they have no place. I am an outsider here…I have no place, no room among these ghosts. There's no place for the living amidst the dead._

"_No, Skye," a vaguely human phantom flies through the sepia mists behind me, a pair of coal-black eyes glaring through me. "This is the only place for you. You…a powerless interloper lost in a doomed land. This is where you belong."_

"_No," I say without my mouth moving, my words echoing like the voice of a marionette. "This is not my home."_

"_Your home?" the spectre laughs chillingly, its cackling infecting my pores. "You have no home. No land where you can feel safe; no haven for your troubled mind. Only here are you free…free from the guilt and the pain, free from hiding away the crumbling feelings in your heart, your mind struggling to hold on to a fracturing existence. Let go. There is nothing more for you in a world born in fire…and ended in fire."_

* * *

"Gaaah!"

My eyes snap open with a start, my heart racing. Red and gold rays of light pour down around me as the sun sets over the open ocean, painting the beach I sit on with an artist's touch. Birds call out with soft chirps in the vanishing daylight, bidding goodbye to the coastal afternoon.

I wince as pain shoots out from my shoulder – _right, the mutt_. Looking down, however, a length of rope tied around my chest holds a wad of cloth in place over the wound. I'm not dead; that's a start. Truth be told, however, my head still hurts – and I can only remember the vague details of the fight. The pale mutt attacked after we rescued Autumn…then…blackness.

"Hey, hey, don't touch that. I don't know how to set it if you screw with it."

Mako squats nearby, holding a bamboo skewer of glistening orange flesh over a weak fire. Autumn's asleep on a pile of palm leaves a couple meters away, curled around my pack like it's a stuffed animal.

"Euh," I grimace, pushing up off the ground on my uninjured arm. "What happened?"

"Before or after I had to carry you out of a cave?" Mako grunts.

"Either."

"Well, a mutt kicked your ass," he replies, turning the skewer in the fire. "I told you not to fall behind. Then your little friend jammed a flare into the hole I made in it. She's handy; you were right. Not only did she scare the thing off, but she managed to save your life."

"How? I was…I remember bleeding a lot…"

"It was a team effort," Mako smirks, tossing a silver cylinder at me. "I guess I have some rich friends in the Capitol who wanted to throw some sponsorship cash my way. She just knew how to use that…stuff…as well as making sure you didn't die before that floated in."

I turn the cylinder over in my hand. It's bare and plain, about the size of my foot with a nozzle and trigger at the top: "What is this?"

"Some sort of white foam," Mako answers, turning his attention back to the fire. "Capitol medicine, I guess. According to Autumn, District 7 actually has a full-blown hospital for when their people get injured hacking down trees, and they have the stuff on hand. Just sprayed it in the hole the mutt punched in you and it stopped the bleeding right away. She says you'll be back to almost normal by tomorrow or so; hope so. We've been stuck here long enough waiting."

"How long was I asleep?"

"'Bout a day. Too long to me; I want to get to that other island. Spent last night paranoid that the mutt was gonna hunt us down in the dark. You hungry?"

He tossed me the skewer before I can reply. I inspect the meat sizzling on the tip; it smells salty, like the ocean breeze blowing in off the shore. I'm guessing it's some sort of fish, but when I try it, it's nothing like the trout and bass in the river in District 9. This fish is hearty, stringy, and tough – something Mako probably has experience catching and eating.

"Thanks," I say apologetically.

"Nah, it was easy to catch. I got a bunch more."

"No, I mean…thanks for keeping me alive."

"Well, you did the same. Guess we're even."

I pause. Even? He said he'd help me stay alive in the arena because I saved him from the eel. Now that he's returned the favor…should I be watching my back? Mako hasn't given me any reason to mistrust him – yet – but it _is_ the Hunger Games. There's only one winner.

"We're…still a team, right?" I ask, giving him my honest feelings. "This…doesn't…"

"I guess men of honor are dead in District 9," he grunts, tossing a strip of bark into the fire. "Actually, they are in District 4 for the most part too. I gave you my word. That hasn't changed. Stop worrying so damn much."

I lean back in relief as he adds in a caveat: "Although…I'm done letting you make the decisions. That's not working too well."

"I'm alright with that," I allow myself a halfhearted smile. "I'm not leading us anywhere good anyway."

Mako goes quiet, peering out at the sinking sun. He's not so bad underneath…I've had my reservations about the volunteer boy from District 4, but he's helped me survive in an arena I should be dead in by now. He's saved my life; gotten me this far.

There's still a long way to go in the Games, though.

"Oh," he speaks up. "Two more kids bought it yesterday. Guy from 11 and guy from 8. I've lost track of who's left by now, honestly."

"Us, 1 and 2, the girl from 10, boy from 7, and both from 12," I total up in my head, surprised I've remembered all that. "It's going fast."

"Fast?" he questions with a grunt. "Day four and there's still 11 tributes left. That isn't fast. Gamesmakers are taking their time, herding us into killzones little by little. Capitol must love it."

I let my gaze drift to the ground as I scoop up a handful of sand, letting the beige grains slip through my grip in the red light of the evening. Killing us off, little by little…like the granules of sand, slowly slipping away. Are we next? Will they save their teams, us and the volunteers, for some sort of showdown now that we survived the human mutt? Or are Autumn, Mako, and I just as expendable as every other tribute in the arena, only valuable to the Gamesmakers as long as we keep things interesting?

"Mako?" I ask quietly. "What do you think they think of us?"

"Probably that we won't get ambushed tonight," he mutters matter-of-factly. "I set up bamboo spike pits around the perimeter. Let 'em send their worst."

"No, I mean…are they just gonna kill us off? Are we doing what we're supposed to? It's a…a _show_…are we worth the Gamesmakers keeping us around?"

He sighs, crouching over the fire and pitching his skewer stick in: "Skye, if they wanted to kill us, they'd have done so long ago. We ran into a freakin' electric eel, saved Autumn over there, nearly got you killed in a cave by a mutt made out of some kind of human I've never seen before, and brought you back from bleeding all over me. What more would they want? Better yet, how is anybody else even giving them the kind of entertainment we are? I doubt Crystal and her mooks are very exciting, complaining about food from the Cornucopia or quarreling over killing lone tributes without a chance."

"What about –"

"Look," he interrupts, getting up and walking over to me. "You want to give them something with some drama so they'll feed us sponsor dollars and whatnot? Here."

He sits down next to me, grabbing my uninjured shoulder and pulling me into his chest. I squirm for a minute, unsure of his intentions – but like I said, he's better at making the decisions than me. Why fight it? I relax in his tough arms, resting my tired head against his shoulder as I stare into our dying fire.

"Is this your great plan?" I murmur softly.

"Eh," he replies. "You're the only one awake; why not? Besides, can you think of all the Capitol women right now, sitting around their televisions and breaking down into screaming gossip? The Gamesmakers should be paying for this. I just raised their ratings single-handedly."

The fire flickers in my eyes as darkness settles in the sky. The glitters of stars begin to sparkle in the deep blue above me, illuminating constellations and patterns I've studied and watched since I was a little girl. The stars are different here; arranged in new patterns and shapes, but it's a comfort to be under their watchful, twinkling smiles. Locked in the Hunger Games and fighting for my life, it's nice to know I've got some friends looking over me…even if they're just stars.

Maybe a few _other_ friends, as well.

"Do you think we have a chance?" I say, my eyelids growing heavy again. "A chance that one of us can get out of here? Go home, be a victor, live a normal life?"

"Do you know what I think?" Mako answers. "I think you should stop worrying and sleep off that hole in your shoulder. Get some sleep. Tomorrow'll be busy."

"I like your suggestion better," I murmur with a smile playing across my lips.

In Mako's arms, my eyes give in to exhaustion, plunging my mind into quiet dreams.


	21. Hunter and Hunted

A day passes, we cross to the final island, and another tribute dies. I had long forgotten my partner from District 9, Ames – I had considered him forgotten, like some shadow of my past I hadn't cared to remember. Now, seeing him in the sky last night, headed home to the district in a box…I feel a hole in my stomach. I never felt anything for my fellow tribute; he was a boorish, arrogant boy; heck, I hadn't even remembered him when recounting the surviving tributes to Mako. Still, realizing that I am the final, last hope for District 9 hits just a little harder than I would have thought.

On the other hand, now all the sponsorships Omaha and Selene gather go to _me_. Hooray.

The sun's bright and warm as I wake up to Day 6 of the Games. Soft waves ripple against the shore here on this bamboo- and palm-covered isle, white sand already hot and dry beneath my fingers. Autumn's up already from keeping watch in the early morning, curled up sitting and watching the shoreline as Mako snoozes nearby.

"Hey," I say groggily, pushing myself up from my palm leaf bed. "Anything exciting happen?"

"A coconut fell off of a tree…and the sun came up," Autumn answers wearily. "I'm not really a morning person…at least it doesn't get cold here."

"I thought you'd be used to the cold," I reply, stretching out on the sand to work the kinks out of my sleep. "District 7 being in the North and all."

"You don't have to like it to live in it," she notes.

I can see the wandering look in her eyes as she stares out at the morning horizon. She wants to go home as much as any of us; despite her quiet demeanor and withdrawn attitude, Autumn's expression gives away what's lying beneath her skin.

Damn these Hunger Games.

"What's it like?" I ask, more to divert my attention away from such morbid thoughts than anything. "Your home? It's…just, I've never been away from District 9 naturally, and I'm curious."

"It's…it's nice," she gives me a fraction of a smile, still staring off into the sun. "It's alive. There are trees everywhere; big ones, little ones. Lots of birds and other animals. Everything's green and brown and woody. Even all our homes are built inside the forest, with trails leading to parts of the district between trees and groves. At the center of town in the square, there's a giant tree…it must be so old, but it reaches up at least two hundred feet. The Justice Hall's built around it, so I never got to see the base of its trunk until the Reaping."

"I remember," she continues with a sad smile. "My little sisters, Summer and Brooke, were both still amazed by it when they walked in to…to say goodbye…hm."

Autumn looks down at her feet, her eyes darkening. I feel bad; I've led her right into memories best left forgotten. No one wants to be reminded that they'll likely never see their family and friends again.

"Hey," I scoot closer to her. "You'll see them again one day."

"If I do, then you'll be dead. Or vice versa," she sniffs. "There's only one winner. I'm sick of this."

"We all are, Autumn. But we don't have a choice. We have to go keep going."

I throw a hand over her shoulder, doing my best to comfort her when my own emotions are anything but stable. _I_ have friends and family hoping I'll return too, even if it is only a few people. I wonder how Reed, Shrike, and my brother have been coping…are they turning into dark, unstable messes? That's not Sage, but Shrike wouldn't surprise me.

Well…at least maybe she and Reed will get together now.

"The Hell are you guys up already?" Mako grunts sleepily from behind us. "Freakin' morning people."

I throw a mean look back at him, but he's already turned and started stretching on the warm sand. Great timing, Mako. I pat Autumn on the shoulder and grab a piece of our remaining cooked fish, getting breakfast down as quickly as possible as Mako outlines his next plan for us.

"Right," he says, knocking some of the charred coals from last evening's fire around with his bamboo spear. "We haven't run into a single person since…well, since running into a mutt that sorta looked like a person. Gamesmakers haven't even thrown natural disaster our way yet – "

"They probably will now," Autumn grumbles.

"Euh…commentary…" Mako waves his hand at her. "Whatever. Before I was so rudely interrupted, obviously things are going swell for everyone watching with the nice little stream of deaths and action going on. We're rapidly running out of tributes to kill; however. The kids from 1 and Sulla are in a team; we know that. Tethys looked virtually unkillable back at the Cornucopia dueling with Sulla, and she's roaming around somewhere out there; I don't want her sneaking up on us. We're here. That leaves a few people…the two kids from 12, who I'm guessing have to be working together to survive this long from such an outlying district, the small girl from 10, and Autumn's missing-in-action district partner. Facts are facts; someone's going to have to kill them. We haven't done anything entertaining in a while – so I say we go hunt a few kids down."

"Hunt them down?" I question, furrowing my brow. "Mako, we're different from Crystal and Tethys because we don't just go looking to kill everyone."

"It's the goddamn Hunger Games, Skye," he pounds his spear butt into the sand. "It's not a courtesy call. If we sit on our asses out here, we're game to be picked off by another mutt or a typhoon or something. I'm not willing to take that chance just waiting to be offed."

"Then why'd we come out here to this island? Why not just go back to the main one?"

"Because I know how they're thinking, the tributes who aren't killers," he answers me. "Hell, my mentor Finnick told me himself during training. They're going to hightail it away from the Cornucopia and put as much distance between themselves and Crystal's gang – who are no doubt hording supplies there. That means they come here – which we haven't seen – or they've headed to the other island. I wanted to come out here because I wanted to box in the people we can kill without risking life and limb. Since we haven't run into anyone else, it's likely they're on the far island."

"We can't just walk on water over there," I dismiss. "There happens to be a bay and a coral reef between this island and that one."

"Yeah, I know what water looks like," he frowns, giving me an annoyed look. "This bamboo? It's damn good at floating and easy to make things with. There's plenty of vines hanging around the inside of this island, and other materials we can use. We're not exactly hurting for things here. Want to impress the Gamesmakers, make them want to keep us going? Then let's show them something impressive. We're gonna build a raft, we're gonna paddle over to that other island, and we're gonna go tilt the odds a little more in our favor."

I'm impressed with Mako's strategic thinking, but I don't want to simply go on a killing spree. I already stressed enough over Lattice's murder when he attacked me – launching an offensive on the weaker tributes, particularly the little girl from 10, isn't my idea of a fair fight. Still, I told Mako he was in charge…and I don't have any better ideas.

"Autumn?" I turn towards our companion. "Are you fine with this?"

Her green eyes flit between Mako and I, hesitant to speak up with opposition: "I think you guys already made up your minds."

"Good, unanimous," Mako cuts off any dissent. "Time to get to work. Skye, gimme your sword; I'm gonna go cut down a few bamboo trunks. You two start gathering vines and palm leaves; one of you work on getting some food together, whether that's coconuts or fish or whatever. We need to be stocked up if we're gonna go out and hunt some tributes down, and the Gamesmakes haven't left us high and dry or anything."

Mako lurks off into the woods, leaving Autumn and I alone on the beach. She's not interested in following his orders, however; my little ally instead grabs the glass bottle of petrol Mako's been holding onto since he found it in the mutt cave and rummages around in my pack.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"I don't think he knows what he's doing with this," she murmurs, pulling out the ragged, dirty cloth towel from the sack. "The vehicles the Peacekeepers back home ride in use petrol to work. It's flammable…so if Mako's afraid of getting snuck up on by one of the other tributes, this can be another weapon they won't expect."

"So…just shoot one our flares into it, or something?"

"No. Stick the cloth in the top, screw the lid back on, and then light it on fire if somebody attacks. Throw it at them, and it turns into a fire bomb."

"That's…way too smart for the Hunger Games," I smile.

"Well, he's gonna get us all killed if he wants to go hunt tributes. I figure I'd better make a backup plan."

"Are you okay with this?" I ask warily. "I didn't want to say anything, but…"

"He's right, Skye," Autumn opines. "I don't want to do it either, but…if we don't find them, someone else will. I just don't want to have to actually do the killing part."

"I guess we'll all have to eventually if we want to get out of here," I bemoan. "Things can never really be the same after this…mutts, dead kids…"

"Look, let's just do our work," she replies quickly as she stuffs the towel into the petrol bottle's mouth. "I don't want to spend any more time thinking about this besides what I actually have to."

I leave Autumn to work on grabbing vines and other vegetation, preoccupying myself with focusing on finding food. Mako taught me the basics of swimming when we came to the island yesterday, and while he's not a very good teacher – nor I gifted at the task – I've got the basics of keeping myself afloat and moving in the water. It's enough where I can at least paddle myself a few feet out from where I can't touch the bottom of the sand, hoping to use Mako's spear to catch a fish or two.

The water's beautiful here, especially up close, and the job keeps my thoughts occupied from dwelling on how to force myself to kill again. Brightly colored corals dot the shallow bottom near my feet; if it wasn't for Mako's warning that they can be poisonous, I'd waste all my time collecting them and marveling over their oranges, blues, and reds. Small fish and squid dart around like colorful shooting stars in the water, jetting this way and that in fantastical patterns. If this is how the sea is in District 4, I envy Mako and the people from Panem's fishing district.

A white and gray seabird with a long, large bill floats by on the water, barking at me and flapping its wings angrily when I reach out to touch it. I suppose it would make a good meal, but I can't bring myself to stab the bird; it seems so content floating on by, watching the small, black fish that bolt in large schools for its next meal. I wish I could be that satisfied here.

I turn out to be a poor excuse for a spearfisher, but the flat, tan flounders that lie on the bottom of the seabed make for easy prey. I hold my breath, awkwardly kicking with my legs in the warm water and sticking my head into the ocean. There's one now, its black, beady eyes just visible under a camouflage of sand. I hold my spear out, hovering the point a foot above the fish before jamming the weapon into the creature's back. It squirms and wriggles, but no use – I've got it tight. In no time, I've got an actual fish to eat and a sense of accomplishment.

I add a few coconuts, another flounder, and some easy-to-grab mussels and crabs near the shore to bolster our food supply. We have enough water to make ends meet with the Gamesmakers pouring down rain every night, and this should be good to keep us going for at least a couple days.

Mako's returned by the time I get everything together, pushing a dozen bamboo trunks together with his feet and chopping holes in their ends.

"How's poking a hole in the raft going to help it float?" I ask.

"I'm gonna jam those smaller bamboo trunks through the holes," he nods over at a pair of thin rods in the sand. "Keep everything together that way. We'll at least know the raft won't fall apart on its own while we paddle over to the other island."

"What if we run into a mutt or something? Another eel?"

"Well…wouldn't be much different than a mutt on land, huh?"

We receive a gift in the middle of the afternoon. I've wondered about the lack of sponsorship gifts considering we're a team – with Mako's good looks to give us an edge with wealthy Capitol citizens – but apparently our plentiful supplies and run-ins with mutts have pushed our mentors to opt for a pricier gift rather than showering down food and basic materials. Floating down on a parachute is one of the stranger things I've seen delivered in the Hunger Games – a circular silver shield.

"Huh," Mako remarks as we inspect our gift. "I don't get it. We have a spear, a sword…what's this for?"

"Something we can't fight," Autumn answers quietly.

"What?"

"It's a warning," she says, lifting the shield in her hands. "Pretty light, too. Our mentors are telling us there's something – or someone – out there we have to be careful of. Something that'll kill us if we're not careful – and not well protected. This was probably cheaper than delivering three suits of armor, although I bet this nearly exhausted our sponsorship money."

"Psh," Mako dismisses. "I'll take it, but I ain't afraid of Crystal and her goons."

He may not understand it, but I do – and Autumn's right. Crystal and the volunteer band will likely try to attack us openly if they do, considering they're not the brightest people and pride strength over anything else. But they're hardly the only danger…and I'm guessing Selene, Omaha, and whoever from District 7 and 4 are working with them are cautioning us over someone else; someone far more dangerous and tactically brilliant.

Tethys. She's on the prowl, and I'm suddenly convinced the timing's no coincidence: Odds are she killed Ames, giving my dead district partner neither warning nor the chance to fight back.

Mako moves through building the raft faster than I would have imagined, finishing the thing before the sun even sets. Autumn and I work on a pair of crude bamboo paddles to keep us on course, and as the sun sets below the horizon, we've got a craft that looks much sturdier – and practical – than I would have dreamed we'd make.

"Look at this," I plant my hands on my hips as I inspect the raft. "You're kinda handy, Mako."

"Yeah?" he laughs. "Well, I said that about Autumn already so looks like you're next. When are you gonna start pulling your weight around here, lazy girl?"

"I'll have to think up some kind of creative encore," I smile. "Did you plan to build this just to impress me?"

"Honestly, I thought I was pretty impressive already," he shrugs with a smirk. "But being serious, let's wait out the night and cross the bay tomorrow morning. It's a straight shot from here, and I doubt it'll take more than a few –"

A series of shouts and screams cut him off. We both look up as Autumn bolts up from her nap, all of our eyes trained on the trees. Something – or someone – is nearby and hunting a tribute. I grab my sword as Mako takes the spear and shield, his knees already bent to counter the unseen force.

"If it's another mutt," he tells me quietly, nodding for Autumn to close in behind me. "Stay back and let me gore it. I'll funnel it right into my spear."

"What about the shouting?"

"He or she is probably dead by now…or wishes they were. Stay ready. Autumn – you're unarmed; go get the raft and our pack ready in case we need to get out of here."

But there's no cannon – not yet. Instead the bamboo leaves rustle at the treeline, something slowly crawling out from the underbrush. It's not a mutt, nor some other deadly predator conjured up by the Gamesmakes – it's Sumac.

Autumn's district partner crawls with both hands out of the dark forest, a trail of blood running from a grievous wound in his chest. His boyish face is contorted in pain, his skin specked with crimson flecks and his legs oozing fluid onto the sand. He's only got minutes left to survive.

"Sumac!" Autumn cries out from the raft.

"_Auta_," he groans, his breath coming in pained huffs. "_No – dun come closa_."

Mako backs away from the injured boy, his spear aimed just under the lip of the shield in defense. He was wrong, however. There are no mutts.

Just tributes.

Crystal strides out from the underbrush, her long hair flowing like a wave behind her. In her hand is a cruel curved blade, blood stained on its silver edge. Her eyes light up when she spots us.

"Well well," she remarks, licking her lip. "The night just got a whole lot more fun. Boys, time to come out; we don't have to share anymore. Everybody gets a turn tonight."


	22. Purpose

"Skye," Mako hisses back at me quietly. "Pull back to the raft. Kick it off with Autumn and get into deeper water; I'll hold them for a bit and swim out. This ain't our fight."

The brushes rustle again, and bulky Sulla and lanky Cobalt step out into the open. They look no worse for wear; Cobalt could still star as one of the Capitol's favorites right now despite a little dirt and grime, while Sulla's as muscular as ever. It's clear who's in charge, however: With her hand on her waist and her hips askew, Crystal's doing all the talking.

"This makes me so happy," she runs her left hand through her hair, tilting her head as she sizes Mako up. "It's been so _boring_ watching the sky at night and seeing runts dying off at a predictable pace. I can't wait to give the Capitol a real show; they deserve better than this slop."

Sumac crawls closer, his eyes cloudy as he approaches Mako's feet. He's weak, fading, almost dead – not long now. His cries are unbearable.

"_Plee_," he groans at the sand. "_Dun doo it tuh me."_

"Will someone please shut that sniveling shit up?" Crystal waves her hand in the air. "Whiners from the outlying district. Heavens only know how he made it this far."

Sulla takes a step forward with a massive halberd ready in his hands, but Mako's faster. With one swift motion, my ally raises his shield in front of his face, leans down, and rams his bamboo spear straight through Sumac's neck. Blood sprays out like a sprinkler from the mortally wounded boy as he seizes up and thrashes, his hands twitching wildly. I step back, horrified: _Mako just killed that innocent kid in cold blood. Sumac didn't do anything to anyone…he's a victim…_

But I realize why my ally did it: It's a mercy kill. Let Sumac die of his injuries, or kill him fast. It's a more courageous deed than I would have done.

"Still a winner," Crystal smirks as Sumac, eying Mako as he lowers his shield to his chest. "Makes me wonder what you're doing with a little tear-jerker like District 9 there, Mako. Couldn't handle competition? Did she pull on some heart strings that we never saw? Or were you just looking for some slave labor to fill your ego?"

"Those two goons of yours don't look so tough outside the Training Center," Mako snarls. "Hardly competition. Why aren't you hoarding your treasure up at the Cornucopia? Tethys scare you off?"

Sulla spits on the ground, interjecting before Crystal can answer: "Little bitch burned all the supplies to the ground. Ain't nothin' to guard."

"Oh hoa," Mako laughs. "So she _did_ scare you off. Crystal, you must be so embarrassed. That's the height of shame…pretty, Capitol-ready girl like you getting ousted by a 15 year-old? Lemme rephrase that…the _three_ of you, four if you count Coral before she got whacked, getting scared off by _one_ girl?"

Something about the way Sulla mentioned Tethys sends a chill down my spine, despite the fear I'm already drenched in. Tethys _burned the Cornucopia down_? After she had control of all those supplies? What would make her do that…to throw away all that bounty, enough to last through the Hunger Games in comfort for a single person? Either she was scared of losing it to the volunteers in front of me…or Tethys is a far better survivor and tactician than even I could have imagined.

I glance back over my shoulder at the raft. It's sitting on the shoreline, water lapping over its bamboo nose and the pack resting on top – but Autumn's nowhere to be seen. She's escaped in the dark, run off and avoided detection while Crystal and her gang have focused on Mako and I.

_Oh heavens, where'd she go? Don't play hero, Autumn…_

"This isn't about that little bitch from 2," Crystal snaps at Mako. "There's one of you, Mako, and three of us. We can kill your little girlfriend there just as easily as we breathe. Tell you what; I'll make a deal with you. You left us, but lucky for you, I'm the forgiving type. Lemme kill that sniffling crybaby behind you, and we can forget everything that's happened. You can join back with us…we don't have to relive the past. _Together_, we'll hunt down that bitch from 2 and the other kids left. Make these Games what they're all about…glory for the strong."

She holds out her hand like some sort of religious offering. I hold my breath, my heart thumping out of my chest: I've trusted Mako this far. He's helped me get through my own ordeal, saved me from death, led Autumn and I to this island…will he stick to his word? I watched him in training – saw him walk around with Sulla, Cobalt, Coral, and Crystal. He's a volunteer just as much as they are; he has every desire I do to go home, and there's no doubt the three from Districts 1 and 2 in front of us are far stronger and more experienced in surviving than Autumn and I.

I've felt fear and fright in these Games, but now I finally feel raw, unadulterated _dread_. Is this it?

"You listenin' to me?" Mako grunts at Crystal."

"Yeah."

"Touch me with that hand and I'll cut it off."

"I don't –"

"Touch her and I'll cut your whole damn head off, too."

Crystal's expression sours, her eyes narrowing and her mouth rounding into a sneer: "Well…it's your choice to die. What a waste. Sulla, Cobalt…go kill him. Make it quick. Leave the girl to me."

Sulla steps forward, his halberd lowered like a lance as he chuckles. Before he can get too close, however, a red light flashes in the dark of the jungle. The volunteers don't see, their gaze fixed upon Mako and I, but now I've realized where Autumn's gone.

A flaming ball arcs out of the dark bamboo forest, lighting up the sand as it flies overhead. Crystal sees it just in time, sidestepping the weapon, but Cobalt's not so lucky. Autumn's fire bomb smashes into Cobalt's head with the shatter of breaking glass and a blast of flame. Red and yellow angry waves envelop the boy from District 1 as he screams into the inferno, fire rushing down his throat. I pull back involuntarily, a wave of nausea hitting my gut from seeing the horrible scene.

"Shit!" Crystal snaps her head to Sulla. "Handle them! Forgot about that other bitch – I'll run her down!"

The tense standoff explodes into chaos. With my head swimming, I take off towards the forest as Crystal rushes in. I can't let her get to Autumn – my friend's unarmed, and she won't stand a chance.

Cobalt rushes in front of me, flames covering his body as he sprints for the water. Mako steps in the middle of us, raising his shield and knocking the flailing boy from 1 to the sand before goring him in the stomach with one quick move. Just like that, Autumn's thinking has taken down one of the volunteers.

"_Get her and get the raft!_" Mako roars at me, rounding on a charging Sulla. "Hurry!"

I sprint as fast as I can into the forest as metal slams on metal behind me, my ally engaging the boy from 2 in a fight to the death. I can't think about him now; Mako will have to hold his own. Autumn – and Crystal – is my responsibility.

"Autumn!" I scream as the bamboo and palms surround me. "Autumn!"

The sound of _plit, plit, plit_ and splashes of water on my skin tell me the nightly rain's starting again. I cut past a swath of bamboo leaves in my way, frantically searching for my friend from District 7 in the treeline. A cannon's _boom!_ sounds – that's number two, signaling Cobalt's death…I hope.

Autumn, Autumn, where are you…

A bird flies up in my face, startling me as it takes off in the rain. I shake off the fright, adrenaline surging through my body in the heat of the moment. Everything's going too fast: Just minutes ago we were making plans for our boat; now Cobalt's dead, Mako's hopefully still alive against Sulla, and Crystal's hunting Autumn – and me – somewhere out here in the dark. I'm alone, scared, woefully inexperienced compared to the danger around me, and in serious trouble. It's like the cave all over again…except now my attacker can think.

Plus, she has a sword.

"Autumn!" I shriek again, pushing my way past another bamboo grove.

Someone flies out of the underbrush, smashing into my face. We both go tumbling to the ground, muddy dirt spraying everywhere as I raise my sword defensively.

"Skye, it's me! It's me!" Autumn panics, raising her hands. "We gotta get back!"

"C'mon!" I nod frantically, picking myself out of the muck. "Mako's –"

"_There you are you bitch!_"

Crystal rushes out of a bamboo grove like a demon possessed, slashing at me with her scimitar. I narrowly avoid being hacked in two, leaping out of the way and whipping my sword in front of me. She slices again, hitting my blade with a thunderous clash and a power that shocks me.

"Think you're so damn smart?" Crystal snarls, hitting my blade and kicking my knee out from under me. "I'm gonna gut you right here!"

She slices at my abdomen, and it's all I can do to hurl myself back to avoid spilling my intestines all over the ground - just like that girl from District 11 at the Cornucopia. Crystal's in a battle rage, her sword moving so fast that I can just barely block her attempts to end me. I spin behind a palm tree as she slices into its trunk, a loud _thunk_ sending up bark splinters. I can't keep this up; I'm lost out here with Crystal breathing down my neck, surrounded by darkness and rain.

_Oh heavens. I didn't want it to be this way._

I counter another blow from her as she leaps behind my tree. Then, something unexpected – Crystal lunges aggressively, striking for my throat as I sidestep just in the nick of time. I swipe my sword at her leg, connecting with the soft flesh of her thigh.

My blade comes away bloody.

"_Damn_," Crystal grunts, stepping back away from me. She snarls behind her clenched teeth, grabbing her thigh as blood spurts out from the wound. "I'll make you _bleed_ for that, District 9."

She doesn't get the chance – not this time. Autumn jumps out from a hiding spot behind a palm, throwing a handful of something gray and dark at my attacker's face. It's ash – the charcoal remnants of our fire earlier in the evening. A smokescreen of dust blows up for just a moment in the rain as Autumn hammers a flare against a palm tree.

Angry red light illuminates the forest, and for a moment, everything slows down. I can see the flecks of ash hanging in the air, Crystal's vague, snarling form behind the smokescreen. Streaks of rain arc through the light and night, each missile from the sky flying down to pelt us and confuse us. Beside me, Autumn cocks her arm, holding her flare behind her shoulder and ready to throw. Her pupils grow wide in the light, her green eyes shining not with Crystal's anger, nor my fear and adrenaline.

It's purpose that's flowing through Autumn's veins.

She releases the flare, hurling the flaming tool straight through the smokescreen of ash and into Crystal's face. Autumn hurls a rock off a tree to our left as Crystal snarls in confusion, slashing her sword around blindly in response to my ally's theatrics.

Autumn grabs my hand, and we run like we've never ran before.

"_Where are you?!_" Crystal snarls behind us, the sound of her sword hitting a tree trunk echoing in the dark. "Come back, _cowards!_"

Neither of us say a word as we hurdle through the underbrush, breaking the tree line and rushing back onto the beach. Sulla's halberd slams down on Mako's shield, the two tributes still locked in combat.

"Mako!" I shout as Autumn reaches the raft, shoving our bamboo float into the current. "Mako, c'mon!"

He feints with his spear at Sulla, smashing his halberd with his shield and throwing a quick look back. I toss myself onto the raft, grabbing one of our two paddles and digging the end into the sand. The raft starts to move out into the water slowly but surely as Autumn and I push with all our might.

"Kill them!" Crystal breaks out of the trees and snarls at her companion, who has pulled away from Mako as my ally backpedals towards the sea. "Kill them, you idiot! Get up there and fight!"

Sulla's had enough this time, however. He plants the butt of his halberd into the ground as Mako reaches the water, his shield still raised defensively. In anger, Crystal hurls her sword at Mako's head, the blade ricocheting with a loud _bang!_ off his shield.

"Thanks!" Mako gives her a token smile, tossing his spear towards the raft and grabbing her sword. "Didn't even need a sponsor for that one."

"I'm gonna run you down!" Crystal screams at him, her anger boiling over. "I'm going to cut your damn legs off, Mako. I'm gonna make you watch as I dribble the guts of your two little girlfriends all over the sand, and when they're screaming for you to save them, then I'll let you think about this!"

"Maybe the Hunger Games just aren't your thing, Crystal," Mako laughs. "Take care, babe. Don't let Tethys haunt your nightmares."

Crystal shouts obscenities as Mako shoulders his shield, swimming out the twenty meters Autumn and I have managed to paddle out from shore. I pull him aboard, still breathing heavily as we head into deeper water.

_Another close call, Skye_. I got lucky with my strike on Crystal, and for all I know, injuring her leg would have weakened her enough to give me a fair chance against her. Still, Autumn bailed me out; she took care of Cobalt, and she ensured we could escape the trees. If it weren't for her and for Mako occupying Sulla, I'd be dead.

I'm getting real tired of this "escaping death" trend.

"Let's…" Mako exhales, pausing to catch his breath. "Let's just get the Hell out of here."


	23. The Cost of Victory

Crystal and Sulla disappear into the trees as we float into the ocean, the water lapping at our bamboo raft. Mako drops his shield and Crystal's sword, letting the metal clank against the wood as he turns on Autumn and I.

"Let's get one thing clear," he says, the rain blurring his angry, exhausted face like a mirage. "If I tell you two to do something, _you do it_. You do _not_ go off on these wild goose chases that could have ended up with either of you killed, with me killed, or something worse. You get that?"

Sea water washes over my outstretched hand as I appraise my ally. What's his problem? Cobalt's dead; Sulla and Crystal didn't kill any of us, and we're doing what he wanted. That's about as good as it gets in the Hunger Games, given our luck. Why the shouting?

"Mako, calm down," I reply apprehension. "We're fine. Nobody's hurt."

"Yeah, well you're damn lucky," he snarls, jamming his index finger in Autumn's face. "I'm talking about _you_. What are you doing? Running off from the raft when I told you to get to it – costing us time and almost our lives? Just so you can look like a hero by lighting a kid on fire? What were you thinking?"

"I was trying to help!" Autumn defends herself, pulling back to the edge of the raft. Her eyes widen in the starlit darkness, washing over her face. "And it's one less Career."

"Help," Mako spits in the water. "The next time you pull a stunt like that, maybe Skye doesn't find you before Crystal stabs you like a shish kabob. Maybe Sulla gets the better of me when I'm left to fight him one-on-one as you frolic in the forest. Is that help? Your help can get someone _killed_."

"Why are you so concerned?" I interject on Autumn's behalf. "Don't you _want_ to kill tributes? You just got your chance!"

"I _want_ to fight them on _my_ terms," he barks at me. "To give myself – _us_ – the best chance of winning something like that. This isn't a game of luck, Skye. You know why they're so scared of Tethys? Why she's terrifying a pack of killers? It's because that girl understands that killing's more than just running at someone screaming with a spear in your hand! It's _strategy_. It's thinking; it's brainpower. It's hunting, not being hunted; an art that keeps to a plan and executes. That's why they're scared of her; because she understands how to succeed in the Games. That's why I'm _concerned_ when Autumn pulls a stunt like that."

"An art," I scoff. "Didn't sound like that when you were taunting Crystal."

"Screw you," he dismisses me with a wave of his hand. "I'm getting some sleep. Don't do something stupid like landing on the island before daybreak. Keep us offshore."

Mako flips over on his side, turning away from us and out towards the ocean. I don't know how anybody can sleep on this bucking raft, the ocean lapping over the side; but if anyone can do it, it's the boy from District 4. I still don't understand him: He argues against Autumn's move because of tactics, yet when Crystal offered him a chance to do better than our ragtag band, he defended himself – and me – against her advances. What's his game? Is he really fighting with the cool head of a volunteer…or is he just as nervous and jumpy as Autumn and I?

I'm not getting an answer tonight. Within five minutes, the sound of faint snoring tells me Mako's beaten the ocean and fallen into the world of sleep and dreams.

"How does he do that?" Autumn speaks up quietly, careful not to wake him.

"What, go to sleep on a watery raft?" I ask. "I dunno. Probably because he grew up by the ocean. I don't know how he manages to sleep right after fighting Sulla and killing Cobalt like that."

"No," Autumn says, furrowing her brow. "How does he just…just toss aside the fact that he just killed two kids? I saw him stab Sumac as I ran off into the woods – poor Sumac; I don't blame Mako for that. He killed the boy from 1, too – and he just explains it all away with numbers. Like killing fellow kids forced to play in the Hunger Games is some sort of computer equation, or school lesson. It's so cold."

"He's a volunteer," I reply. "They get trained for this."

"I don't want to become like that," she opines, looking out at the dark horizon. Her words are soft and slow, laced with all the emotion of a girl struggling to hold on to her heart. "Even with Cobalt…and Crystal…just now, even when I was ready to do what I had to do, it still hurts. It's hitting me that I helped kill someone, even if he would have happily killed us. I don't feel successful. I don't feel like I'm closer to victory. I feel guilt…and I know that no matter what happens, I'm not going to ever get that image of Cobalt on fire, flailing and screaming, out of my head."

"This is what the Hunger Games do," I murmur softly, staring at my feet in solemnity. "When I fought with Lattice…when I stabbed him on the morning of the second day, he asked me to kill him. He asked me to end it; to make the pain that I'd inflicted go away. I couldn't do it. I let him linger, let him die in pain, all because I couldn't finish what I'd started. He attacked me, but…but that detail doesn't matter to his friends and family back home. I'm a killer to them. To me."

Autumn sits quietly for a moment, with only the creaking of the raft breaking our silence. The stars are still out here on the water, the sky so much bigger without the trees and beach and sand. When I'm the only thing separating the vast, dark sea and the black, infinite cosmos, I feel like a speck of nothing between the hands of giants.

But even this speck has to fight. However small I am, the endless sea and sky can't beat the feelings raging up from my heart.

"We shouldn't be here, Skye," Autumn says quietly, a gust of warm wind clearing her hair from her face. A tear drops down her cheek, the fallout from seeing firsthand the icy mercilessness of the Hunger Games. "This isn't a place for us."

"It's not really about us, though, is it?" I bemoan. "All that's up to us is to make something with what we've been given. All we can do is try to go home."

"What are you prepared to give up to do that?"

"What?"

"What are you willing to sacrifice to go home?" Autumn asks. "To become a victor? The best of 24 tributes, the other 23 of whom are dead? This isn't black-and-white, Skye. If either of us make it out, we'll never be the same. Victory costs. We can't just go back to how we were, pretending we've never killed or watched others screaming and bleeding, knowing they have to die for us to survive. We can't just replace our hearts, our feelings, with new ones, as if we're changing dirty clothes for a clean set. We'll pay for winning these Games…and every time we go back to the Capitol for a new Hunger Games, ready to mentor and watch tributes die all over again, we'll pay a little more."

"I don't know," I answer slowly. "I don't know what I'll become if I get out. I haven't thought about it. But I know home's waiting for me, and people are hoping I'll come back. That's enough for me. I was never gonna live a perfect life anyway, Autumn; if I have to deal with some demons so I don't die in this place, that's a risk I'm willing to take."

Autumn goes quiet, watching the calm sea caressing our raft and carrying it further out into the bay. Her fingers linger in the water, as if she's trying to find her answers in the ripples of the ocean.

"You never told me what District 9's like," she speaks up. "We're told back home that you guys farm wheat, but we're never told what that looks like. I always try to envision the other districts, the other places…but I never have a point to start from. I don't know what wheat fields look like, or coal mines, or animal pastures."

I lean back on my elbows, picking up one of the paddles and gently rowing to idle my thoughts. It's good to have something to do when you're thinking of home at a time like this; the good memories and wishful thoughts can be overwhelming: "I'm used to it, but if you were just arriving by train…I guess you'd see the golden plains first. Even outside the district fence, the grass prairie stretches on forever in nearly every direction, reaching out to the horizon. To the west, you can see mountains, hills…a reminder that the Capitol and District 2 are that way. Inside District 9, most of the place is covered in the fields - big, open areas of wheat and barley and oats, with workers like tiny ants in between all that."

"You can see everything from up on a hill," I go on, staring off into the darkness as my mind turns over dreams of better days. "I go there with my friends Reed and Shrike when we have time. We bring up whatever we can scrounge up for lunch in a basket, watch over the fields and the gray cinder buildings of the town square from up there. It's a pretty view, and on summer days, the wind blows just enough to cool down the heat of the sun. They've probably been there during the Games, not wanting to see me on the screens."

"Did you get to say goodbye?" Autumn asks innocently, her chin resting on her knees.

"Yeah," I nod. "Shrike was a mess…she's always a bit too dramatic. Reed was his serious self; if he's watching, I really hope he starts to just enjoy the little things more. He's a good guy."

Autumn gives me a little smile: "Well…I guess if we make it to the final eight, all the people we know will get interviewed. There're only nine of us left now."

"Hopefully Mako's plan…whatever it is…works, then," I sigh. "Ugh. Back to business."

My ally looks around at the water, running her hand through the ocean again: "I wish I could just pass out and sleep like him – just ignore the water and the raft and forget about everything for a bit."

"I didn't have watch last night," I offer. "I'll stay up. Come over here – just put your head on me. You don't have to worry about the water that way."

Autumn hesitates for a moment before relenting, scooting alongside me and laying down on the wet surface of the raft. I lean back to give her some space, letting her use my stomach as an impromptu pillow. It's the best I can do for someone who's given me a little hope here in the arena.

"You're a good friend, Skye," Autumn whispers, her tired eyes fluttering. "I'm glad we got a chance to meet up in the arena."

"Me too," I whisper back with a smile. "Me too, Autumn. No one should have to be alone in here."

It doesn't take long for my ally to pass out from exhaustion, leaving me with only the creaking and rocking of the raft. I lean back, careful not to wake Autumn as I stare up at the stars. I've watched the night sky hundreds of times, but I've never really appreciated the twinkling lights up in the heavens like I do tonight. Out here, where that little girl from District 10 might still be huddled up and alone somewhere, fearful of every sound in the brush, I can relax for just once and smile. I'm not alone. Autumn and Mako have kept me going despite the many chances I've had to break down and fall apart. the stars up above me tonight, shining like beacons in the dark, are the smallest bits of faith I can hang on to that one day – one day when this is all over – I can go home.

Maybe Autumn's right. Maybe I'll be a broken girl if I do, crying over the deaths of my two new friends and ruined for the rest of my days. Maybe the cost of victory will be too much. But maybe I'll be able to remember them for the people they are, rather than the fate that befalls them.

I don't think that would be so bad. Sometimes, losing yourself in a memory can fight off the pain and tears.

My eyes grow heavy in the night as I lay my paddle down on the raft, content to let the sea take us wherever it wants.


	24. Pulling Back the Armor

Cloudy skies and thick mist wake me up in the morning, the sound of rippling water greeting my ears. Mako kneels next to me, crouching down low on the raft to see through the fog. With paddle on hand, he navigates our boat through the dense clouds and dark water.

"It's cold," I cough, goosebumps crawling on my bare skin. "What happened to the temperature?"

"Not so loud," Mako whispers. "Mist just rolled in a few minutes ago and I can't see how far the shore is any more. Don't know who's listening. Plus, your friend's still asleep."

Autumn's rolled off my torso, her head resting on the wet bamboo near my leg. For a girl who said she couldn't sleep with all the water, she's doing well now.

"I'm a little on edge," Mako breathes. "Feels like the Capitol's got something in mind with this cropping up all the sudden. Stick with me when we get to the island; don't go running off."

"Mako?" I ask. I shouldn't dig into his motivations like I am, but…I want to know what's behind his steely expression and stone-set face. "Why _are_ you so concerned? You said stuff last night that didn't make sense. I don't believe any of it."

"This is really not the time, Skye," he murmurs, his eyes focused straight ahead like lasers. "I'm trying to focus on getting us on course."

"You said you wanted to give yourself the best chance of winning," I soldier on despite his protests. "But why stick with me if that's so? Why stick with Autumn? Crystal gave you a chance – a better chance – than you'd have here. It's not about that, is it?"

Mako lays his paddle down, letting out a long, deep sigh: "They teach you things when you train for the Games, Skye; things that strip away your innocence and turn you into a machine. The people who taught me warned me time and again that stressful situations – scenarios like the Hunger Games – can break your will. They can make you forget the countless lessons and strategies that have been drilled into you; turn you weak and vulnerable when you need your strength. They can forge bonds that never were supposed to occur and bring you close enough to others you have no history or ties to that your fears, your weaknesses, begin to show."

"What's my weakness?" he says. "Maybe it's that I'm still human, even after all my training's attempts to rip that away. Maybe I don't want to die alone and afraid in this arena either – and maybe I just want someone who understands me, too. Training tells you never to get close to others in the Games, and perhaps I'm scared that I've broken that cardinal rule. Crystal said it last night: Perhaps someone pulled on my heart strings that nobody's ever seen; that _I _haven't seen. Someone got close enough in this arena to tear down the walls I carefully built up. And in my own moment of weakness…my own vulnerability…I let it happen. Maybe, secretly, I even encouraged it to happen."

He lets his foot trail in the water, his eyes old and solemn in the mist as I digest what he just admitted.

"You…you care about me?" I ask quietly, hesitantly. "After all these times you said you just wanted to win? That we were just partnering to survive…but you felt…more?"

He shakes his head, raising his armor once again: "Wake Autumn up. I want you both awake and alert when we get there. No mistakes this time."

I let my gaze linger on him just a moment. In just the brief minute he let his guard down, Mako told me the most important thing I needed to know: I can trust this boy. No more doubts. No more wavering on whether he'll betray me or stab me in my sleep.

It's a lot more serious than that.

I shake Autumn awake, grabbing and shouldering my pack as the shore comes into view through the mist. The sand's dark and black over here, a far cry from the white beach of the other islands. The trees are more menacing, curved and slender with angular branches sticking out at odd angles. No birds are crying and shrieking in the early morning here; even the bugs are quiet. There's a sinister feeling about this place Mako's led us too, and even he seems tense as he paddles the raft towards the shore.

"Alright," Mako hisses as the raft bumps into the shore, grabbing his sword at the shield. "Everybody off. Keep your wits about you."

I grab my own sword and Autumn the bamboo spear as we debark. The soft sand's like mud under my feet, slowing my steps as I look nervously in towards the fog-shrouded trees. What's waiting in there?

Before any of us can take another step, a low, booming roar sounds behind us from somewhere in the foggy bay. It's like a horn at full blast, echoing for several seconds over the beach and water before tapering out. The call makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand ramrod-straight, a chill – and not from the mist – spilling across my skin.

"That doesn't sound promising," Mako whispers, scanning the tree line. "Alright. We scout on the island. If there's nothing here, then we'll make our way to the channel crossing and set up a camp at the end of the day. Let's go."

"Look over there," I point to our right. "Someone burned that down."

To our right, the charred remnants of a small shelter – large enough for a couple of people, an alliance, maybe, litters the tree line. Ash-covered trees lie fallen in the sand, streaks of black running across their trunks. Smoke still lingers in the air, the smell of it just infiltrating the salty scent of the sea. I smell something else, too…something foul; something foreign. It's like an evil permeates this place; one bent on destroying whatever comes across it. From the charred shelter to the black sands to the misty fog, this entire island has me on edge.

"Wait," Autumn holds us up. "There's something over there on the beach, towards the left. Something lying in the sand."

"Autumn, this is _really_ not the time for running off," Mako hisses through grated teeth, tossing another look back towards the ocean. "Don't –"

Too late. Autumn jogs down the beach away from us, her spear hanging loosely in her hand. Mako swears and slowly starts after her, his shield hand tensing up as I follow. I squint in the fog, making out something small and brown on the dark sand ahead. I can't quite figure out what it is, but Autumn's reaction startles me. My ally stops dead in her tracks, a gargled whimper leaking out from her throat.

"Oh heavens," she squeaks.

Mako's seen it too. He grabs my jumpsuit as I follow, holding me back behind him: "Don't take another step, Skye. Autumn – just walk back over here, c'mon."

"Who did this," Autumn whispers, her voice just barely audible through the fog. "Who leaves them like this?"

Finally I can see the shapes in the sand. Hair, skin, thin…_bodies_. It's the girl and boy from District 12, along with the little girl from District 10. They're still and at rest in the sand, lifeless and empty. The black beach obscures their wounds, but I have no doubt their blood has spilled all across the shore.

"What…" I gasp. "Why…why haven't we heard the cannons? Why haven't they been picked up?"

"They're not dead," Mako hisses quietly. "Someone left them here to die. Left them here…to draw in other curious tributes. Like us. Autumn – get back here _now_."

"They're still alive," Autumn bends down by the side of the girl from District 10, grabbing her hand and caressing it softly. "We can't just leave them here to die like this!"

"_Yes_ we _can!_ We're getting back to the raft; I made a mistake wanting to come here. Someone beat us to it. _Get back here right now!_"

"She's _dying_, Mako!" Autumn protests, holding on to the little girl. "She's been shot with an arrow; they all have! I'm staying; I'm not letting them die alone!"

The low, dull roar from the ocean sounds off again, and I turn my head towards the sea. Something's casting ripples through the water back there. It's eerily similar to when I first saw Mako, with the electric eel throwing up ominous waves. These are larger, however; whatever's out there and calling to us, it's far more dangerous than some eel.

"Mako…" I warn.

"_Autumn Goddamnit!_" Mako snarls. "I am going to walk over there and pull you off of her! There's nothing you can do now! There's nothing anyone can do now!"

Before Autumn can respond, something rustles in the brush.

_Twang!_

An arrow slices through the mist, cutting apart the fog like a machete. Autumn doesn't get the chance to even move as the arrow slams into her waist, knocking her back on her face. My ally screams in pain as Mako grabs me by the shoulder, shoving me to the ground and raising his shield.

"Down!" he yells. "Stay down!"

I breathe rapidly as he stands overhead, ducking behind the shield and waiting for a shot. Seconds tick by slowly, the fog overpowering and drowning my lungs. What's out there? _Who_ is out there?

_Twang!_

Another arrow hisses from a different point in the trees. Mako aims his shield just in time, intercepting the shot with a loud _thunk!_

"Stay behind me," he hisses. "We're getting out of here. We're not making it out alive any other way."

"No!" I yell. "I'm not leaving her! Autumn! Stay where you are! I'm coming!"

"Damnit Skye!" Mako shouts, scanning the trees from behind the shield. "We got one chance. Stay with me. We'll move to her slowly; run out ahead and you'll get shot."

The archer's had enough of shooting from the shadows, however. Bushes in the tree line rustle again, our attacker emerging into the clear.

It's Tethys.


	25. At the Mercy of Demons

_**A/N: Rather bloody chapter ahead; be warned. Also, thanks for the reviews, guys!**_

* * *

"Oh, no," Mako breathes. A trickle of sweat leaks off his brow, splashing down into the black sand. "Not what I had in mind."

Tethys tosses a short, stout bow to the ground, frowning and scowling at Mako's shield. It's not her only weapon: The girl from 2 pulls a machete-like blade off her waist and a spear off her back, kicking the bow back into the woods as she does so. I thought she was creepy back during training, but in this context, she's terrifying. Her face is determined and merciless; her eyes burning like raging suns. Mako may have fallen for his humanity in the Games, but not Tethys. She's a raw killing machine.

"Hand-to-hand, then," Mako exhales. "Alright. Skye – I'll keep Tethys busy. Go get Autumn, get her back to the raft – and _don't run off_ this time. I could fight Sulla, but I don't know how long I can keep Tethys occupied alone. Make it quick; get the raft going."

"Be safe," I grab his arm. "Please."

"No promises."

I take off running as Mako rounds on Tethys, trying to goad her into a fight: "Not much of a talker, huh District 2? Shoot first, ask questions later? That wasn't very nice of you."

She takes a step in my direction, pausing and turning back towards Mako. Tethys is prioritizing threats – and right now, Mako's a lot tougher of a fight than I am. Better to knock out the big fish first.

"Attempted distractions," she mutters, more to herself than us. Tethys starts pacing in front of Mako, walking back and forth a dozen meters away from him as she attempts to find a vulnerability.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Mako stretches out his sword arm. "Here I am. You're not scared of big, bad me, huh? I mean, if you can kill a couple kids from District 12 and District 10, I must not be much of a challenge. Oh – you didn't quite kill them; looks like they're still lingering. You might want to do a better job next time."

"Irrelevant," Tethys frowns, her eyes narrowing. "This conversation is over."

She feints towards Autumn, luring Mako to raise his shield before sprinting into battle. Holding her sword in her right hand and her spear in her left, Tethys slams into Mako's shield, blocking his sword with one weapon and trying to gore him over the defense with her other.

I turn away – I'd just be in the way, and Autumn needs me. My little ally's crawling away on the black sand slowly, dragging herself with her face contorted in pain. The entire head of Tethys's arrow is buried in her torso, with blood trickling out of the wound.

"I'm here," I kneel down by her, frantically looking over my shoulder. "Hold on, Autumn."

"I'm sorry," she cries. "I was doing something stupid. I'm sorry."

"No – no, no," I grab hold of her by the shoulder, inspecting the wound. "It's not your fault. C'mon – we have to get you out of here."

There's no way I can dig this arrow out without causing some serious damage. The barbed arrowhead will rip and tear her internal organs if I just pulled it out – and I can't perform battlefield surgery quick enough to stop Tethys from wearing down Mako.

"Put your arm around me," I tell Autumn, sliding my hand around her back and careful to avoid her wound. "It's not too far."

She whimpers in pain as I help her up. It's about a hundred meters to the raft from here, but with Autumn relying on me to help her walk, I can only hope we get there time. I hook my sword on my belt, grab Autumn's spear, and start the trek to the raft.

_Crunch!_

Mako's doing better than I expected. He blocks Tethys's sword with his shield, pinning her spear to the ground and cleaving the weapon in two with his foot. Tethys steps back, breaking the fight momentarily and sizing up Mako again, circling like a patient predator. She flips the broken spear shaft in her hand, clashing swords with my ally and shoving his shield to the side. I watch, horrified, as she holds his defense back long enough to ram the broken spear into the right side of Mako's chest, drawing blood with the splintered wood.

"_Gah!_" Mako snarls, knocking Tethys's sword away and dancing back. The wound's not bad, but Tethys is hardly even slowing down – if anything, she looks like she's growing_ stronger_ as the fight progresses.

Bloodied and bruised, Mako's not giving up. He dodges Tethys's swing, sidestepping and kicking out her knees as she advances. Tethys goes down, but Mako's killing swipe isn't fast enough to catch her off-guard. Just as quickly as the battle seems to swing, things deadlock with the two combatants circling again.

"Skye, stop, _stop_," Autumn begs next to me, wincing in pain. "Ah…it hurts!"

"Just a little further," I urge her on, desperate to reach the raft in a hurry before Mako's overwhelmed. "Be strong, Autumn. Come on."

She nods with tears of agony running down her face, grabbing hold of me tighter and willing herself on. I clench my jaw as I half-carry her the rest of the way to the raft, adrenaline surging in my stomach. The clash of metal resonating along the beach tells me Tethys isn't content to let us go: She wants to knock off her competition while she has the chance.

I half-push, half-hoist Autumn onto the raft, taking off my pack and leaving it and the spear with her. I kick the raft to get it started, pushing it off from the sand and into the water.

I can't just leave Mako, however – and Tethys still has him locked in combat. He'll kill me for this if we survive.

"I'll be right back, Autumn!" I tell her, pulling my sword off my boat and running onto the beach.

_Skye, that girl's gonna massacre you! Leave him – he'll find his way back!_

I ignore the voice in my head, sprinting up the beach towards Tethys and Mako. I have to help him – if we can't kill Tethys now, then at least I need to get him back to the raft safely. He won't make it on his own.

"Mako!" I shout. "Hold on!"

"The Hell are you doing, Skye?!" he yells, just narrowly missing a well-timed swing from Tethys. "Get back to the damn raft! I'll catch up!"

I don't care what he says. I run at Tethys, sword aimed to stab her through the heart when she pulls the fastest move I've ever seen. In a flash she knocks aside Mako's shield, elbows him in the face, and turns on me just as I'm about to strike. Tethys jumps and kicks, whacking me in the face and sending me falling to the sand in an explosion of pain. I hold my sword up to block a follow-up, but just like that she retreats a step and goes back to circling. Her eyes narrow like a cat's, assessing the situation with two attackers here.

"Skye," Mako warns, wiping blood from the gash on his chest. "I swear, if you don't get back to the raft this minute –"

That's all the time Tethys needs. She feints towards me with the shattered spear shaft, launching herself from her plant foot and reaching her sword around Mako's shield for a killing strike. My ally's just lucky enough to react in time, lunging forward and pinning Tethys's sword arm with his shield. She grunts in anger as he prepares to strike – but again, Tethys won't go down that easy. She grabs his arm, throwing him back and intercepting me as I try to intervene. She's much too fast, jerking back to avoid my sword, dropping her spear butt, and grabbing me by the shoulder all in one quick motion.

Before I can even more, she hurls me to the ground. Tethys swings her sword down as she does, and it's all I can do to arch my back to avoid being cut in two. Still, it's not enough to avoid the hit.

_Rip!_

"_Ah!_" I yelp in pain as the sharp tip of her sword rakes across my lower back. A white-hot lance screams up my spine as I roll out of the way, avoiding a well-placed kick as Mako charges. He slams his shield into Tethys's chest, driving her back like a train as the two jockey for position.

As I struggle to get up with pain spreading like a spider web across my back, something else catches my attention. A deep, rumbling call sounds from the ocean – the same horn-like roar I heard earlier, but now much louder and closer.

"Skye!" Autumn weakly shouts from the raft. "Watch out!"

I turn my head back towards the shore at my ally's warning. Suddenly, Tethys isn't the biggest threat on this beach.

Oh, Gamesmakers. This is _really_ not the time.

Something from the deep – something massive, something _tainted_ – crawls out of the ocean. An amalgam of slimy pustules and muscular tentacles drag a terrifying, black-scaled head the size of a small hovercraft out of the water and onto the beach. The head is almost human, in a squid-like way: Two bulging white eyes sport eerie blue irises, with a crown of spikes and flanges that could pass for hair in some perverted alternate universe. A mess of razor-sharp ivory teeth line a gaping maw of a mouth, large enough to swallow me whole. An oily stench, reminiscent of when an ink pen at school would leak, infiltrates my nose.

_Still sure the raft is a good idea, Mako?_

He spots it too as Tethys breaks off the fight for a moment. Even her eyes widen at the horrible mutt, freezing the arena's most dangerous tribute for a split second. That's all the time Mako needs: He backs off from Tethys, hoisting his shield in front of him and pulling me up from the ground by my arm.

"It's a flesh wound," he breathes, looking over the painful slash on my back. "You'll live. We're getting the Hell out of here – _now_."

"The mutt is going to kill us if we do!" I protest.

"And Tethys will kill us if we stay here!" he argues. "This isn't a debate, Skye. _Move_."

I take off running, ignoring my aching back and keeping an eye on the squid mutt. It's slow but steady, advancing towards us like a coming storm. Tethys isn't having any more of this: She abandons the fight, retreating back towards the jungle as the mutt approaches.

I get back to the shore, hooking my sword on my belt and paddling out the dozen or so meters to the raft. Autumn's curled up on top, her hand clutching her abdomen just above the arrow. There's a lot of blood on the bamboo…

"_Oof!_" Mako's intercepted by the mutt as he hurries back, slammed right in his chest by a powerful tentacle. The beast snatches up Tethys before she can get away as well, a snake-like arm grabbing her around her waist and hurling her into a tree.

"Mako!" I shout.

"_No_, go!" he yells, picking up his sword and slicing at the mutt's tentacle. "I'll get there!"

The beast roars in anger, slamming down another tentacle that just misses my ally. A hurricane of dust explodes around Mako as he puts some distance between himself and the beast, running for the water. Tethys woozily recovers at the tree line as the mutt turns its attention on her.

_Smash!_ The girl from 2 ducks just as the mutt swings a tentacle at her, cleaving a palm tree in two and blasting it into toothpicks in the process. Mako takes advantage of the distraction, diving into the water and keeping a hold of his weapons as he kicks through the waves.

_Twang!_ An arrow flies out of the jungle, arcing high in the air and flying towards me. I don't hesitate, grabbing the pack and pulling it up above my head. The pack bucks in my arms as the arrow smashes into it – _darn good shooting, Tethys_. I make sure I'm safe before pulling Mako aboard the raft, heaving him up on the bamboo. Another arrow shoots out of the woods, slamming into the squid mutt's jaw. The creature roars with displeasure, destroying another tree as it retreats back down the beach.

It's leaving Tethys…and headed for the water. Uh-oh.

"Paddle!" I tell Mako, grabbing an oar and jerking it into the water. "Hurry!"

He sees it too, grabbing the other oar and speeding the raft up: "Aim for the center island – we'll have a better chance of losing it in the shallow bay."

I paddle as fast as I can, but the mutt doesn't seem interested. It snarls at the tree line and Tethys, beating its arms against the sand and retreating towards the deeper water of the open ocean. We're safe – for now.

I lay down my paddle, looking over at my whimpering ally from District 7. The diagnosis isn't good.

"Just hang on, Autumn," I plead, ripping open my pack and digging my hand in it. "There's a first-aid kit in here, somewhere."

"Grab the foam," Mako says. "The white stuff we patched you up with – there was a little left in the canister. Once we get the arrow out, we can at least stop the bleeding."

I shrug, dumping the contents of the pack atop the raft: "The arrow's barbed; if you just yank it out, it's going to hurt her."

Mako grits his teeth, looking down at Autumn's wound: "Well…one other way to get it out. Skye, hold her down."

"Wait," I panic. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to cut the feather end of the arrow off and push the shaft and head through the other side and out her back. It's angled so it looks like I won't rupture anything too vital. I hope."

"You hope? Mako, that could kill her!"

"We don't have a lot of choices, Skye," he rebuts. "If it didn't already hit her kidney, it's definitely going to burst that if I just pull it out the way it went in - or if it breaks off of the shaft, even worse. This is the best thing I can think of. Now hold her down – if she's thrashing about, it's going to make it worse."

I hold on to my forehead, steeling my resolve as I grab Autumn's hand: "Stick with me, Autumn. Think about home. Think about District 7 – about the trees and your family. Just hold on to me."

I grab her shoulder tightly as Mako saws the back of the arrow off with my sword, grabbing the end of what's left inside her: "You ready Skye?"

"Just hurry," I plead.

"Never thought I'd be much of a field medic," he sighs. "Here we go."

Mako shoves the arrow in deeper, sending a spurt of blood from the wound. Autumn shrieks in agony in response, writhing in my hands as I struggle to hold on to her. Her hand clamps down on mine, squeezing so hard that I'm afraid I'll lose circulation. I can't let her go now, though – not when I asked her to be strong. Not when she's going through unimaginable pain.

"Hold on, Autumn," I soothe. "Hold on, sweetie."

Autumn screams as Mako keeps pushing the arrow through. My head spins, my heart hurting – it's unbearable to watch my friend in so much pain. I can't even understand what she's feeling, and nothing I can do will make it go away. I feel so…so _helpless_, the worst thing I've felt in these Games. I've almost been killed by a mutt and several tributes and carried the guilt of killing on my conscience, but nothing has pained me like this. There's nothing I can do but keep her steady as Mako does his work…and hope he doesn't slip up. I can't make the pain go away. I can't go anything but hold on.

So this is what the Hunger Games are all about, after all. We can kill each other; we can hurt, maim, endure, and survive, but at the end of the day, we're not in control. Only the Gamemakers – the Capitol – is. We're at the mercy of their whims, like leaves floating atop this horrible sea.

"There we go," Mako says. "Penetrated the other side. Just need to push it all the way out."

"Is it okay?" I ask nervously, my voice barely audible over Autumn's cries.

Mako shrugs as he pulls the arrowhead out, yanking the final bit of the projectile from my ally's waist: "Honestly, Skye, I have no idea. Autumn's the fucking medic, and she's the one hurt. I'm just doing the best I can."

He tosses the arrow remnant into the sea, his hands stained crimson from Autumn's blood. The white foam sealant stops the bleeding and plugs up the wound, but while my friend's still alive, there's no telling how much damage Tethys's shot inflicted.

Right now, however, I don't really care about the future.

I pull Autumn into a hug, letting her cry her pain out in my shoulder: "You did good, sweetie. It's all over, okay? The pain's gonna go away. Just rest; it's all over."

"Skye?" Mako pipes up. He's frozen solid, his hand gripped around his sword: "I don't think it's over."

I'm about to yell at him for his insensitivity before I see what he's looking at. Something's rippling through the sea nearby…something big; something black, and headed straight for us.

The squid's not giving up without a kill.


	26. Autumn

"Oh heavens," I murmur softly. "Oh, not now. Please not now."

"Set her down; start paddling;" Mako takes charge, grabbing the spear in one hand and his sword in the other. "Skye, I know you're hurt – in more ways than one – but I need you to focus. We're not getting out of here unless you help me."

I lay Autumn down on the raft, resting her head against the emptied pack as I grab one of the oars. I don't know what Mako's plan is: I can't paddle the raft out of here fast enough to avoid the squid. It's coming on fast; and if Tethys couldn't make a dent in it, how can we?

Mako doesn't know what he's doing, either: "I have no idea how I'm going to kill this thing. This is bad…real bad…"

"Should I aim us back at the island?" I ask. "Even with Tethys?"

"No. It's moving to cut us off; trying to drive us into the open bay. If we go back, we're just going to close the distance. Keep heading for the center island; maybe it'll beach itself on the reef."

It's at least three kilometers to just the nearest side of the central island; there's no way we're going to even get close. Still, I have no other option but to try.

I don't get far. In less than a minute the squid is on top of us, rearing out of the water like a fountain of tentacles. Spray and mist blast me, nearly knocking me off the boat. Mako's ready for the first attack, holding his ground on top of the raft and slicing at the squid's offending arm.

_Splatch!_ His arm cuts cleanly through the rubbery tentacle, drawing a howl of rage from the mutt. Oily black liquid gushes out like a geyser, mixing with Autumn's blood on the deck of our raft to create an unsettling painting of violence. I just barely manage to hold back my nausea from the stench.

"Come on, you bastard," Mako keeps his footing on the bucking raft. "How many more arms you got?"

The squid learns fast _not_ to attack from the front – but it's a whole lot larger than our tiny raft. The creature dives, disappearing into the blood-soaked sea.

"That's it, you son of a bitch!" Mako laughs. "Run! Keep running!"

_Ka-Bam!_

Everything explodes into chaos. The squid rams the raft from beneath, blasting the bamboo into splinters and sending us all flying every which way into the air. I flail helplessly as I tumble head over heels, splashing down into the sea like a meteor with a titanic _whoosh_.

_Darkness_. The clear beach sea this is not, the water tainted and blackened by the mutt's oily blood. I frantically swim for the surface – _Air! Need air!_

"_Bluh!_" I inhale sharply as my head breaks clear of the water. I do my best to tread water, pulling my sword off my belt as I look around.

Everything's gone. Bamboo wood spreads out in pieces around us, the raft a distant memory. Bits of supplies and my shredded pack float away in the waves, and I can see my chances of winning the Hunger Games sinking with them. We're far out in the bay, the nearest island home to the most dangerous tribute in the Games. Even if I could swim that far – and I can't – I'd be quickly hunted down and killed. What am I supposed to do? Am I going to die right here, right now, a prisoner of the ocean deep…and _where the Hell are my allies?!_

"Skye!" Mako shouts nearby. "You there?"

He's still clutching his shield and sword, the bamboo spear nearby. Good to know Mako's taking care of the weapons first…

"Autumn!" I ignore him, desperate to find my injured friend. Forget me, how's _she_ supposed to survive this? "Autumn! Hang on! Where are you?"

There – she's floating face-up nearby, barely hanging on with bright red blood leaking from the arrow wound. _Oh no…_

I paddle towards her, but I don't get far. The mutt has other ideas.

"_Graaww!_" the squid roars, surfacing in front of me and slamming a tentacle down.

Water flies up in my face as I just avoid being smashed into a paste. I'm helpless in the water, and as the squid looms up, I know my time in the Hunger Games is coming to a swift end.

Mako's sword flies in out of thin air, slamming into the creature's crown of flanges with a satisfying _thunk!_ The mutt roars, turning away from me and rounding on my ally. Mako grabs the bamboo spear, impaling the creature's nearest arm and drawing a howling roar of rage from the squid. Finally, the mutt's going up against a tribute who's almost as good in the water as it is.

_Thank goodness Mako's from District 4…_

"Wait!" I shout towards Autumn, redirecting my attention and paddling as best as I can. "I'll get you in a second!"

The mutt dives under the water again and I pause, looking around apprehensively. Did Mako convince it to run?

_No._

The squid rears up in front of me again, slapping me aside with a tentacle. It's all I can do to hold on to my sword as I'm thrown sideways like a piece of trash, water exploding around me. My head spins, stars shooting through my vision as the squid howls and snarls. It's done going after Mako, however – and it's not interested in me. It's interested in Autumn.

The mutt snatches my helpless friend up with one arm, snaking its tentacle around her waist. Autumn doesn't have the energy to fight it: She squirms in its grip, but unarmed and badly hurt, she's stuck in a losing battle.

"Autumn!" I scream, my heart pounding. "Wait! _No!_"

Another tentacle wraps about her chest and shoulders, squeezing her tightly in a vice. Autumn doesn't have a chance: With a titanic, victorious roar, the mutt yanks its arms in opposite directions.

"_Noo!_" I howl as my heart breaks.

_Boom!_

The Capitol's cannon fires as the squid tosses the two pieces of Autumn's body into the water. It roars at Mako and I one more time, diving back into the depths and running away in victory.

"_No!_ I snarl, anger consuming me. "_Get back here!_ I will _fucking_ kill you! Get back here!"

I push myself onto a battered chunk of the raft floating nearby, paddling with my sword in the direction of the squid's retreat. Right now I want to kill something – _anything_. I want to make the squid bleed. I want to make _Tethys_ bleed, spill Crystal and Sulla's guts all over the ground – Hell, even Mako will do. _Something has to die_ to avenge Autumn.

"Skye!" Mako torpedoes through the water towards me, pulling me off the raft fragment and into his arms. "Skye, stop! Please!"

"Get the Hell off me!" I snarl, elbowing him sharply in the stomach. "Let me go!"

"They just wanted a kill," he says, holding on to me tightly as I struggle in his arms. "That's all they wanted. There's nothing you can do for Autumn now."

On cue, the horrible aerial drone from the Capitol hisses through the air above us. It hovers over the ocean for a second, snapping two metallic grapplers into the water and collecting the remains of Autumn's body. Booster rockets fire as it pulls her into its bay, jetting away just as quickly as it came. Autumn's gone – she's going home.

It really is all over for her. The pain's going away…forever.

"Goddamnit!" I turn in Mako's grip as he keeps us afloat. I pound my fists into his chest, burying my face in his shoulder as tears flood from my eyes. "_Goddamnit._ Why'd she have to die? Why? She had something she was fighting for, Mako…she had something to go home to! Why kill her?"

"I know," he holds me tighter, running his hand through my hair as I sob. "I know, Skye. I'm sorry. This is all just too messed up. We're stuck playing this violent game until only one of us left…come on. We can't just stay in the water here."

"I just want to float away," I cry. "I don't even care."

"Skye, you have something to go home for to. Don't throw away what Autumn died for," he says, pulling me out of the water and laying me on the raft's fractured remnant. "The Games aren't over. Don't you give up."

"Why do you care?" I sniff, wallowing in my anger and tears. "There're five of us left. You're going to abandon me if one of the others dies before we do. You said it yourself: You're leaving when we're down to four. You swore on it. You made that a condition of our team."

"Well…I said I was a man of my word," Mako sighs, climbing up on the bamboo logs and laying down, exhausted. "I'll have to start breaking my promises, eventually…I'll start by breaking that one."

He pulls me up on top of him as we float into the bay, grabbing my hand and urging, "Rest, Skye. I'm not just going to let you give up. Not now. I don't know how these Games are going to end either, but we can figure that out when the time comes."

* * *

We float in the open water all day, languishing in the bay as the tide pushes along. The sun shines brightly above, mocking us with its warm rays and friendly light. It's the perfect day out here in the arena; but to me, it might as well be a full-blown storm. I swing between crippling anger and paralyzing depression, unable to drift into sleep as I toss and cry in Mako's arms. The old Skye is gone, replaced with this unstable wreck I've become.

"_What are you willing to sacrifice to go home?"_ Autumn's words haunt me as I mourn my friend's death. _"Victory costs. We can't just go back to how we were, pretending we've never killed or watched others screaming and bleeding, knowing they have to die for us to survive. We'll pay for winning these Games._"

"_It's watching this and knowing we can't do a darn thing about it, Skye,"_ Selene's voice joins the solemn chorus in my head, the words from that dark day in the Training Center coming back to me. _"There's no silver lining. You watch a kid die for absolutely nothing. I don't want to see you join Omaha and I, haunted by our own thoughts."_

Too late. Too darn light – I've sacrificed whatever innocence remained inside me, watched it ripped away with Autumn's death. Maybe this is what the Capitol wants: A broken victor with no light to guide them, left by the Games as an empty husk.

If that's what they want, come and get it.

Mako and I drift off to sleep in the late afternoon, letting the raft float where it may. We awake under the cover of night, the rain returning after last night's hiatus.

Last night…when Autumn was still alive.

"There," Mako points out as we float into shallower water. "Looks like we're coming back to the island with the cave. We went a little further than I wanted, but hey – let's make do."

"I hope the mutt's dead," I mutter bitterly. "If not, I'll kill it this time."

"Let's just get ashore," Mako grunts. "For once in my life, I'll be happy to get off the damn ocean."

He hops off the fragment of raft, which is now at the point of disintegrating. I trudge ashore behind him, wet, depressed and angry.

I won't get the chance to cry it out just yet, however. The tree line rustles – the mutt?

No - worse.

Crystal and Sulla materialize from the bamboo brush, looking hungry for a kill, if also worse for wear. The slash I inflicted on Crystal's leg has opened up again, leaking dark blood down her leg. Sulla, on the other hand, has had a slice taken out of his shoulder. Seeing as there's no other tribute left here, I'm guessing the human mutt found them, too.

"Well, well," Crystal smiles, looking worn-out but pleased with our arrival. "Looks like your little nautical adventure didn't go so well, Mako. Where's your other little girlfriend? The one who snuck up on Cobalt? Oh…that's right…I saw her stinking face in the sky tonight. Bummer. Couldn't save her, huh?"

"_You_ shut up!" I snarl, peeling my sword off my belt and waving it at her.

"Oh, hit a nerve," she laughs. "Don't worry, precious. I don't know what got her, but I'm going to get you myself right here. Sulla…go take out our friend from District 4's knees. I want him to watch as I smear this bitch all over the beach."

"With pleasure," Sulla grunts, hefting his halberd and advancing on Mako. "Not gettin' away from me this time, bud."

Mako sighs, slumping his shoulders as he sizes up the boy from District 2: "I am – _so_ – sick of you two."

Sulla doesn't see it coming. Mako hurls his shield at the boy's head, surprising District 2's tribute. Sulla swats away the attack with his heavy weapon, but he's not fast enough to counter Mako's next move. My ally pitches his spear at Sulla, flicking the weapon just fast enough so the boy from District 2 can't block in time. The bamboo spear point impales Sulla straight through the navel, eliciting a gasp of surprise and shock from his gaping mouth as he falls to his knees.

"You do _not_ know how sick of you I am," Mako snarls, walking over to Sulla and kicking the mortally wounded tribute's halberd away. He picks up the weapon for himself, kneeing Sulla's face and knocking him to the ground. "All I wanted was _just a minute_ to reconnoiter, and you have to _freaking_ interfere again! So I'll tell you what – I didn't get to kill anything else today; might as well start with you."

Mako hefts the halberd up above his head, bringing the weapon's axe blade down on Sulla's neck. I turn away as my ally decapitates the boy from District 2 – I might be angry, but that's gruesome even for _me_.

I have to admit, however: Someone needed to pay for Autumn's death, and Sulla and Crystal make excellent candidates. If I can't have Tethys, they're the next best things.

"How 'bout you?" Mako kicks Sulla's head aside, addressing Crystal as the girl from District 1 stands in shock. "You want to die too, Crystal? I'm real sick of you as well. You know what they said about the Games? 'Don't give a damn about killing people.' So here I am, not giving a damn. What's one more body, huh? Already stacked up 20 of them. You'd make a good 21st. Only one winner, and I will be _royally_ pissed off if it's you. It's like you think I'm just playing around, waiting to get killed. Guess what? I can do some killing of my own. This isn't anything foreign to me, and it sure as Hell isn't going to weigh on _my _conscience."

Crystal snarls, backing away towards the trees: "Forget you, Mako. Watch yourself and your little girlfriend. The Games aren't over yet, and District 4 sure as Hell isn't going to have a winner."

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that," he waves her away as she disappears into the underbrush. "Repugnant bitch."

As the cannon sounds and the drone scoops up Sulla, I don't feel the usual pang over killing that started with Lattice so early in these Games. No, I feel something else…something dreadful.

Satisfaction.

"That was…amazing," I smile as Mako looks off into trees. Four tributes left – is he going to leave me, or stay? "So…are we…"

"Still got Tethys and Crystal running around," he mutters. "And I _really_ do not like either of them. You know what, Skye? We've given Crystal a bit of a head start, here. Let's go hunt her down, the two of us."

I give him a smile: This time, I'm happy he's breaking his oath. Four tributes left and we're still a team.

_I am willing to sacrifice something, Autumn, _I think as we walk forward into the dark trees. _I sacrificed the girl I was, Skye Holdrege, and become…this. This monster…torn between the crushing blow of your death – the depressing weight of all the innocent deaths here in the arena – and the thirst to make the killers in this place pay._

Truth be told, this monster has a better shot at winning these Games than little Skye Holdrege ever did.


	27. Hope Endures

_**A/N: Thanks for the kind words, reviewers!  
**_

* * *

Red fire streaks across the sky as the sun sets over the horizon. Mako and I spent a whole day of searching around the island, and nothing – no Crystal. Wherever she is, she's doing a good job staying away from us.

I clutch my knees to my chest as I sit on the white sandy beach I first found Mako on that second day in the arena. Smoke billows out of the Cornucopia's mountain on the center island, gray, ashen smog painting a diseased swath across the beautiful sunset. It's symbolic of this place in a way; despite my pristine surroundings of tropical beauty and crystalline waters, this arena, this island paradise, is nothing but a deceiving Hell veiled in wonder.

Mako walks up behind me, tossing a broken coconut to the ground nearby. I hungrily dig into the nut, slurping down the sweet water inside and digging around the meat with my sword.

"Guess you're hungry," he muses, looking over at the smoking mountain. "What d'you think they're doing over there?"

"Probably something horrible," I reply. "I don't really want to think about it."

"Hm," he mutters. "I don't like the look of that."

"Why?"

"Makes me think the Gamesmakers want to end this soon," he says, scratching his chin. "Ah. Maybe not."

"I thought you kept telling me not to worry so much," I rebuke him with a smile.

"Well, now you see how much I do things I tell you not do," he shrugs, plopping down in the sand next to me. "Is your back feeling any better?"

"A bit. Still hurts."

"It'll go away," he pats me on the shoulder, squaring his jaw and slouching forward on his elbows. "Not like we have that long, anyway. Just four of us."

"What do you think people back home said about us?" I ask out of the blue. "I mean…final eight tributes; they interview your family and friends."

"Heh," Mako chuckles. "Skye, I don't really…have stuff like that."

"What d'you mean?"

"I told you, I'm a nobody in District 4. Nobodies don't have friends and family."

"Mako, _someone_ has to care about you."

"You'd be wrong. I told you already. I'm not going into that."

I stare down at the ground, feeling ashamed. _That's why he's drawing close, Skye_, a voice in my head says. _He doesn't have anybody else. You gave him what he wanted._ Something awful hits me: Beneath Mako's tough exterior and harsh words; beneath his training and strength, he's desperately clinging on to something in this arena. He's scared of losing the only person who's had his back; the only one who's cared about him – and he met that person, _me_, in a contest where only one walks away alive.

"Sorry I brought it up," I mumble in apology.

"Tell me about your people," he says, staring the other way. "Your family and friends. What do you think they said?"

"Alright," I shrug. "Well…one of my friends, Reed, a boy –"

"He sounds like a loser."

"Stop!" I push his shoulder gently with a smile. "We've been friends for a while. He's good with words…maybe he can even get us a sponsor, or something."

"Little late for that."

"Are you gonna keep interrupting me?" I laugh. "Alright, I'll leave Reed alone. "I don't have a lot of friends, really…but they probably interviewed my brother, Sage. He's my closest family. I don't know what he said, but he was there to say goodbye after I was Reaped. I remember him telling me that he expected me to win…that he expected me to walk off the train back home. I don't think anybody really believed in me like he did. He's done that forever; I'm just…just a fifteen year-old girl from District 9, but to him, I'm something more."

I push my toes into the sand as I talk, losing myself in my memories: "I miss him. That sounds stupid, probably."

"No; it doesn't," Mako says. "I can't pretend to understand that kind of relationship, but I can understand that when you've found something…something that matters to you…you won't let it go."

"Yeah," I smile sheepishly. "Yeah, that's…that's right."

He pushes a lock of hair over my ear, staring at me as he does: "You should smile more, Skye. I haven't seen it very much in here…I wish I had."

"So you like pretty, smiling girls?" I tease.

"Ah, just one, I think," he chuckles. "But who said anything about pretty? I like you, and you're covered in dirt and salt and who-knows-what. Gross. The ocean's a poor substitute for those Capitol showers."

I look down again, preparing to dive into a deeper subject than I'm prepared to explore: "Do you mean that?"

"Skye, we're all dirty and worn out," he sighs. "I didn't mean anything bad by it."

"No, not that…I mean…the other part."

He sighs again and grabs my hand, placing it on his knee and covering it with his own: "I've life alone, for the most part. Training only brought me competition, not friends or mentors. I was prepared to fight these Games alone; to endure for however long I needed and kill anyone who got in the way. When I met Coral, and later Sulla and the District 1 kids, I doubled down on that belief. They weren't anybody I wanted a part of. They were just more of what I'd already experienced: People in it for themselves, ready to throw away anything and everything for glory and fame. What's the point of fame? The only thing I wanted out of the Games was to make something of myself – something I'd never had. That wasn't going to happen any other way but to volunteer, I figured."

"But things didn't turn out that way," he goes on. "As I was diving into my inner killer…somebody saved me – in more ways than one. I watched her give herself for others with no regard for her own safety, something I'd never seen from the vain people of District 4 or the Capitol. And I saw her reach out to me – when she had no reason or motivation to do anything but kill me, or at least run from me. Nobody's done that for me – ever. Not even with reason, but certainly not just from the depths of their own heart. It's the one thing I couldn't have expected from these Games."

"So when I say I care for you – that what happens to you matters to me – I mean it. You picked up whatever broken pieces lied in here," he taps his heart, staring off into the setting sun. "And you put them back together into a whole. You did for me what I came into the Games to do – you made something out of me. You're a champion, Skye – you were for Autumn; I could see it in her eyes whenever she spoke to you. And you certainly are for me."

I stare slack-jawed at Mako, unable to process the feelings he's just spilled. _Mako_? Is this the same expert fighter and leader I've kept close to since that second day of the Games? The one who was willing to hunt down the tributes from District 12 like a weapon of war; the one who effortlessly ended a dying Sumac, the one who impaled Sulla like he was buttering bread? That first time he held me…when I was recovering from the mutt's attack in the cave, that night mere days ago that feels like years…he wasn't just trying to drum up sponsors.

He cared. He always has.

I realize something as emotions rush through my veins. I've been hiding something from myself, too scared to realize the ramifications of these feelings. I pushed them back even further when Autumn died and stripped me of one of my only friends in this arena. Still, even through hardship and heartbreak, they've lingered at the bottom of my heart.

This boy – this killer, this tribute, this…man who cares about me…means something to _me_ as well. He's pushed me, driven me forward, and kept me afloat when darkness and depression has threatened to drown me in a choking morass of despair.

Now, I don't know if I'm going to be able to let him go.

"Mako?" I say quietly, my words barely slipping from my mouth. "If the Games end tomorrow…if I die, or if you die, of if we both do and Crystal or Tethys wins…I don't want to go without something."

"What's that?" he asks with a smile. The sun glints ever so subtly off his green eyes, throwing up a rainbow of color.

"Kiss me. I don't want to die without knowing what it's like."

He says nothing more, placing a hand on my back and leaning forward. My eyes closer as our lips meet with an electricity – a joy, a wonderful, warm feeling that shoots tingling sparks down my body from head to toe. Just like that, it's over – the moment gone, his lips leaving mine. But the feeling, the jumping nerves in my stomach and the fluttering cotton in my brain, stays behind.

"You know what?" Mako says as he leans back, a smile playing across his lips. "Maybe I do die tomorrow. Maybe this is my last night alive. I don't even care - I'm spending it with the only girl in the world worth it all. I don't care what District 4 thinks, or the Capitol thinks, or Panem itself thinks. I've got something better than them – I've got you. I don't intend to let go."

He pulls me into his chest, leaning back into a palm tree as darkness settles over the evening sky. I don't struggle in his arms, resting my head against his shoulder as I watch the stars pop up overhead in the calm night. I've always felt like they watched over me back in District 9…and even here in the arena, when the night's clouds and rain have given way to the stars, they've given me hope that I'll see another sunrise.

Tonight, the stars aren't the only thing giving me hope. Tonight, hope's holding me close.


	28. Alone

_**A/N: Thanks for the suggestions, RadioFreeDeath! Constructive critiques help me become a better writer and deliver a better story - can't argue with that. Feedback's always welcome.  
**_

* * *

It's still night when I open my eyes, yawning softly and looking around in the darkness. Mako's still fast asleep, his arms having fallen down from holding me a long time ago. While it's hard to see in the black of the night, a light – and not the moon or stars – glows soft and red in the sky. I look around sleepily, rubbing my eyes and glancing towards the central island. _There_ – the Cornucopia mountain's still smoking, releasing the light and the faint smell of a fire. What are the Gamesmakers up to? Are they going to light the whole forest on fire; try to drive us out onto the beach?

Eh. I'll deal with it tomorrow. I close my eyes to go back to sleep, preparing to lay my head back down on Mako's shoulder, when something forces me awake.

_Snap!_

I sit up quickly, my gut leaping with nervousness. What was that? My fingers close around my sword as I try to peer through the darkness behind me. The sound came from the trees – is the mutt coming around? Something else?

_Darn it. Should've set a watch! Games aren't over yet, Skye…_

I squint into the bamboo groves as the quiet white noise of the night sinks in again. It was probably just an animal; maybe a bird or snake or something. With the Games rapidly coming to a close, I'm admittedly jumpy – particularly with Crystal and Tethys left as competition. Without Mako, I'd be as good as dead against either of them in a one-on-one fight. I only _just_ escaped from Crystal the first time, and Tethys…well…I can't even imagine how that would end.

_Snap!_

There it is again! Something's out there, hunting us in the dark – it must be the mutt. My allies hurt it pretty bad back in the cave, according to Mako…is it looking for payback while we sleep?

I get up from the sand, careful not to wake Mako as I do. He's peaceful in sleep, his eyes darting around and lost in some dream world. I hope it's better than this place.

No reason to wake him up as I check out the noise – I'll probably only be gone a minute or two. Most likely it's a false alarm, but I don't want to get snuck up on; I've had enough of that. I leave Sulla's halberd and our shield with my sleeping companion, keeping my sword out and at the ready in case something dangerous really _is_ out there.

The bamboo jungle is a menacing place at night – particularly when alone and nervous. I push aside a clump of leaves as I step into the groves, my footsteps quiet and measured. It's easy to get lost out here…and before I know it, I'm getting lost in my own thoughts.

_If tomorrow's the last day,_ a sinister voice in my head says. _And Tethys and Crystal both die…what then? Are you ready to stab that boy from District 4 in the neck, like he deserves? He'll keep you from going home!_

_No! _I think in response, trying to block out the other voice. _Mako…Mako cares about me! And I care about him! I can't just gut him like a fish. _

_Really? You sucked up his words like a drain, Skye. Like he really cares about you. Please._

_Yes! He does! He could have killed me; could have left me after Sulla died. He could have killed me in the cave and left Autumn to die; he could have let me flail about and drown in the sea after Autumn died! He never did – he saved me; he's kept me alive where I should have died a hundred times!_

_Just to set you up for the killing blow. Imagine how much the Capitol will love that – did you even LISTEN to your mentors? To Omaha – to how he did what was necessary; to how he killed the girl who loved him in the Games? Omaha's shouting at you right now to knock Mako off as soon as Crystal and Tethys are gone. Sage told you to do what was necessary also; even Reed did. Why can't you listen to their advice? Why do you have to be so stubborn – so caught up in your damn emotions? This is the Hunger Games! Idealists come here to die. _

_It's not stubbornness_, I reply angrily to my brain. _It's love. Or as close to it as we can experience in the Games. Maybe the Capitol will…will let it happen, or something. I don't know! I can't kill him! No!_

_Then you'll die. Maybe you deserve it. Stupid, naive girl_.

_Snap!_

The sound breaks me out of my thoughts, causing me to jump. I look to my left and right – just darkness here. Something's around – _has to be an animal. You're just scaring yourself, Skye. _

Just before returning to the beach, I take one last look behind me into the trees – right as something fast and dangerous rushes out from the bamboo grove.

_Clang!_

I raise my sword just in time to intercept something sharp and dangerous, recoiling with fright and shock.

It's not a mutt. It's Crystal.

The girl from District 1 is almost limping on her bad leg, but she's still a formidable opponent fueled by anger and rage. She gives me no time to step back and prepare, hurling herself at me like a wild dog. Adrenaline surges through my veins as I duck behind a tree, letting her long, sharp knife smash against the palm's tough bark.

"Told you I'd find you again, District 9," Crystal breathes, slicing through the air as I jump back. "Where's your boyfriend? Did he leave you?"

I panic, backpedaling and screaming at the top of my lungs: "_Mako!_ Mako, help!"

Crystal pauses, leaping back into the darkness as I hold my sword out. I can't take her alone, even if she's injured – she's too fast, too dangerous, too _angry_.

"Skye!" I hear Mako call out. "Skye, where are you?"

"Mako!" I shout again. "It's Crystal – she's out here somewhere!"

I don't know where my ally is, even as he shouts at me to stay still. My breath comes in ragged heaves as I look around – where'd she go? One minute Crystal was slashing at me like a demon of the dark…the next, she disappeared like a ghost.

A sharp, pained, male cry – _Mako's_ cry – echoes in the darkness. I hear Crystal laugh, a sadistic taunt that turns my blood cold: "_Ha!_ You let her turn you _weak_, Mako! Now look at you! What do you have on me, huh?"

_No. No, no, no…_

I hurdle through the underbrush, the dark woods blurring around me. Mako! No, she couldn't have…she couldn't…

I rush into a clearing by the beach and spot Mako – a sight that takes my breath away. Crystal's knife is buried up to its hilt in the center of his chest, spilling dark blood down his jumpsuit. His face strains from the pain as he backs up against a tree, his eyes fluttering around the forest.

"Skye," he gasps, spotting me and holding out a hand. "Get out – go –"

I turn just as Crystal ambushes me, leaping out of the dark again. I'm just quick enough to block a blow from another long, cruel knife as she aims for my neck. I jump back, stabbing at her bad leg and trying to keep her at a distance. I've got reach on her smaller weapon, but she's just fast and skilled enough to keep up with everything I try. Her volunteer training pays off as I stab at her stomach, overextending myself and leaving my shoulder unprotected.

Crystal slams her knife down on my sword, knocking the blade to the ground. She grabs my underarm simultaneously, hurling me against a tree. Pain shoots through my ribs as I collide with the stiff bark, a fresh wave of pain shooting through my head. In a flash she's on me, kneeing me in the chin and driving her foot into my throat.

"Oh, I was told not to do this," Crystal laughs above me, towering like some victorious goddess of war in the red glow of the night. "But I won't really get the chance to play with Tethys, will I? Boyfriend can't save you this time, District 9."

She bends down as I struggle to get away, powerless under the strain of her foot. Crystal grabs me by the chin, forcing my face up: "Look at me, District 9. _Look at me!_ I'm not going to have _you _deny me the victory I deserve in these Games. Mako? I told you I'd spill her little guts all over the ground…are you watching?"

"Oh, I'm watching alright."

Mako lurches up from behind Crystal, who's too caught up in her moment of triumph. He yanks the knife out of his chest, grabbing Crystal's weapon arm and pulling her back. With one smooth, well-trained motion, he drives the bloody knife into the nape of her neck, ripping it horizontally through skin and tissue. Blood explodes like a fountain from Crystal's throat, splashing all over me as she stumbles. Mako shoves her to the earth, the girl from District 1 choking and heaving as her life spills onto the ground.

"Still watching," Mako grunts, clutching his chest. "Have a good trip back to District 1."

Crystal gasps out a final, desperate note, falling over into the soft earth with a resounding _thump_.

Just like that, we're down to three.

But it won't stay that way for long: Mako's chest bleeds profusely as he barely manages to stay standing, coughing and groaning as he tosses the knife aside. I hurriedly get to my feet, rubbing my neck where Crystal pinned me down and holding on to my last ally in the arena.

"You…just love runnin' off, huh?" Mako gasps with a pained smile. "Oh, heavens – lemme down; put me down."

Tears erupt from my eyes as I lay Mako down against a tree. I kneel down next to him, pawing at the blood on his chest like I can stop it.

"That's…uh, really not good," he says weakly. "I don't think I'm getting out of this one, Skye."

I burst out crying, pushing my face into my knees as my tears stain the ground: "Heavens, Mako…I'm sorry! This is all my _dumb fault_. I just…I…you and Crystal…"

"Skye," Mako manages the strength to grab my arm, pulling me closer. "You listen to me…okay?"

I nod weakly as he goes on, his words cutting through the pain and blood with conviction: "You…you got somethin' to go home to. Find some way…somehow…to kill Tethys, okay? We all knew this couldn't end…couldn't end happily ever after. Not here."

"No!" I cry. "No, Mako…I'm sorry."

"I'm not," he replies with the faintest hint of a smile. "I'm not, Skye. You gave me something to live for – something to die for. There're a thousand other ways to die, and I wouldn't take any of them over being with you."

I sniff back a fresh round of tears and grab hold of his hand as he fades: "Mako…I won't forget you. You've been here for me; I'll be there for you when this is all over."

"Do something for me, Skye," he whispers, his eyes slowly closing.

"Anything."

"Don't make me an anchor," he says. "When you win…don't become like all those other victors. Find something that'll make you happy."

I nod quickly, stroking his hand as his eyes close and smiling through my anguish: "I will. I promise."

"I wanted to see that again," he grins, his words slow and soft. "That's a smile worth dying for. Don't let them take that from you, Skye. Don't let them ever take that from you."

His fingers go limp in my hand, his head slumping against the tree. I can't help but burst into tears again as the cannon sounds – once, twice! – marking Crystal and Mako's death. It's just Tethys and I left in this place…this horrible, dark, lonely place of pain and despair. This arena's taken everything from me – my spirit, my heart, Autumn, and now Mako. All that's left is me, sitting here in the dirt, alone and afraid.

Now, truly, I am alone.


	29. Take Me Home

_Boom!_

A deafening explosion wakes me from my terrible sleep. My eyes bolt open, looking around frantically – what happened? The smell of sulfur and smoke chokes my throat, ash burning my lungs. Gray flecks drop out of the sky like a graveyard snowfall, the perverse rain of the underworld sticking to my skin and the ground. Across the channel, the Cornucopia's mountain – or what _was_ the mountain – has caught fire.

Plumes of red and yellow lava flow down its sides with a thick cloud of black smog and gas rising from its top. The jungle is alight, burning brightly in the terrifying morning air. Chunks of rock fly out like missiles from the volcano's peak, arcing into the air before splashing down in water and on land like tiny meteors.

I swallow hard: I'm alone, afraid, armed only with a sword and a shield, and the Gamesmakers have decided to turn the mountain into a _volcano_. Tethys must be out there somewhere – they're herding her this way, trying to force a confrontation and bringing a quick end to the Games.

This is it. This is the finale.

I let out a strained breath, grabbing my weapons and turning towards the bamboo grove behind me. If they want to force us to fight, so be it – I want to put some distance between Tethys and I; maybe she'll wear down running from the flames and lava. I don't have much of a shot, but every little bit counts.

Tethys has the advantage in every other way I can think of. She's better armed, with a bow and her sword – not to mention years of training I don't have. She's fast, agile, smart, and reactive, having already proved she could handle both Mako and I in a fight. How much easier will it be for her when it's just me – little Skye from District 9, without her companions here to warn her away from danger? Tethys has had _no one_ during the Games; she's fought alone, knocking down tributes with ease like a one-man army.

I need a strategy. I need something, _anything_, to give me a boost against my foe. I've survived so far because of help – but where do I find help when all my allies are gone?

A terrible idea crosses my mind – but like I told Mako, I'm great at coming up with terrible ideas. I'm on the second island…the one with the cave…There _is_ help here for me. It's just not the kind I'm used to. Well, that and it's already tried to kill me once.

I jog out towards the far edge of the island, where Mako and I first tromped around so early in these Games. If I can find the cave again – and somehow make my way into it without killing myself – I can take Tethys off-guard with something she'll _never_ see coming.

I can only hope the human mutt won't kill _me _first.

Too quickly, my plan goes awry: I haven't made more than a hundred meters of progress before a jet of flame explodes in my face. I tumble back, scurrying away as more plumes of fire erupt around me, forcing me towards the shore facing the volcano island. Fire jets erupt again and again, pushing me back as I take off on a run. The Gamesmakers aren't letting me run that easily – they want me to stick to their script; won't let me draw off the only source of hope I can ask for. Ash and flaming soot pelts my back as I run, hanging on to my weapons for dear life as I scamper through burning bamboo and palm groves.

_Why?_ I think. _Why give me no chance? Why make me fight where I'll surely die? I can't take her alone! You know it! The people watching know it!_

I told Mako I'd find a way to kill Tethys. I told him I'd make it home; told him I wouldn't forget him. How can I do that – how can I keep my promise – when the Gamesmakers won't even give me a shot?

The smoke thickens as I make my way back to the beach and the channel, coughing and choking in the smoggy air. Between the plumes of fire still exploding behind me and the volcanic eruption happening before my eyes, the Gamesmakers have turned this arena rapidly from beautiful tropical paradise into a twisted, island version of Hell itself. Gone are the blue skies, the chirping birds, the green trees; in their places have come a red, poisonous sky looking down on burning jungle and death…death everywhere.

_Just in time for death to settle these Games. How fitting_.

Even the crystal-clear waters have been poisoned by the ash, turned gray and dark from the volcano's fallout. Flows of lava from across the way hiss with steam as they run into the ocean, blasting white clouds into the air. The ocean itself seems to moan in pain as a great, dull, low roar echoes out from the bay. It's like the sound of a horn at full blast, a boom that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand ramrod straight…

I've heard that sound before.

I step gingerly onto the sunken channel sandbar, the murky water washing over my feet. Something catches my attention from across the way – something small and more than a half-kilometer away, but something _human_, no doubt about it.

Tethys.

I can only just make her out from here, but it can't be anything else. We're the last two left alive in here, and the controlled, almost robotic way the figure moves, it can only be her. I grip my shield instinctively, ready to raise it and ward off any arrows she may try to shoot from long range.

Another disturbance catches my eye, however: A ripple in the water snakes towards the channel from far out in the burning bay. Tethys and I won't be alone in our final fight. The human mutt's not the only help I might be able to use.

_If you can survive it, Skye…_

The figure draws closer, stepping out into the channel in approach – Tethys is coming for me. I wipe my brow in the hot, ashen air, my hand coming away gray and covered in soot. Neither of us will be able to last forever – this fight will have to end soon, or we'll end up choking to death on whatever's burning my lungs. I can only hope it's hurting her as much as it's hurting me.

It isn't long before Tethys emerges clearly through the soot, a burn easily visible on her arm. She hasn't escaped the fires and lava pouring down in rivers behind her unharmed – but her face is the picture of concentration and determination. She's still locked into killing. A new feeling bubbles up in my gut as I clutch my sword – _anger_.

This is the girl responsible for Autumn's death. She tried to kill Mako; tried to kill _me_.

She stops about thirty meters away, tossing her bow and quiver of arrows to the ground. She's spotted my shield – her archery skills won't be much use as long as I can defend against them with ease.

"I'm here, Tethys," I say just loud enough for her to hear. "I'm still here. Come finish it."

My adversary takes a step back, crouching down like a hyena ready to attack. Her eyes narrow as she begins circling, looping around me and drawing closer as she looks for a vulnerability.

I won't let her start her usual tactic, however – not when she's moving away from the closing ripple in the water. It's my only chance. I cut her off, moving right to drive her towards her left – and towards the approaching disturbance. She takes the bait, all too happy to keep me moving while she sizes me up.

I'm not dumb enough to attack her outright, however; better to stall for time: "You killed my friend. You killed Autumn."

"An incorrect assertion," she mutters, her sword hand tensing up.

"You shot her. I cared about her," I say, pushing every ounce of emotion into my voice as I can muster. Anything to improve my odds in the eyes of the Capitol – the ones who have control over my fate now. "Do you feel anything? Heck, you can't even have _fun_ in these Games! You act like it's all some maze of numbers and statistics. Is there anything in you besides a cold loner?"

"I will not allow you to distract me," she says, still prowling about cautiously.

_That's the point:_ "Are you even fighting for anything, Tethys? I'm fighting for my home. My district. I'm fighting for Mako – the boy you tried to kill alongside me; the boy who told me he cared about me. What are you fighting for? Is there _anything_ that matters to you? Are you just…just a shell; a machine?"

Tethys freezes, taking a step forward and cutting me off: "This conversation is over."

She starts towards me, sword out and at the ready. I take a step back – _this is it_.

Tethys feints to her left, jumping back to her right and hurling something from her off-hand at me. I raise my shield just in time – _thwap!_ She's got darts of some sort – or another close-ranged throwing weapon – that'll complicate this fight.

My opponent leaps as she closes, striking out with the tip of her sword and slamming the weapon against my shield. A ferocious _clang!_ sounds as I block and step back, careful to keep her between the ripples in the water and I. Tethys dodges back, keeping me on the defensive as she bides her time.

"You don't feel anything!" I say, nervousness trickling through my words. "Killing's just all you do! Why are you even trying to win? What have you become?"

Tethys takes a step back, juking right and slashing at me again. I raise my sword protectively, blocking her blow and swinging back at her exposed stomach. She's much too fast, dodging like a cat as a piece of burning ember from the volcano hits my shoulder. I yelp in pain, stepping away from my competitor as I rub the black soot from my skin.

_Fire, death, and a battle that will leave only one alive – the Capitol can't be happier!_

Ash streaks Tethys's face as she rounds on me, black soot bringing out the angles and bony creases of her face. She's terrifying up close, looking like a primeval spirit of destruction with the backdrop of fire and lava. In her cat-like yellow eyes, I can't see any sign of humanity or emotion – no indication that she feels at all remorseful for the things she's done.

All I can see is emptiness. There's no life in Tethys's eyes.

"Has anyone ever been there for you?" I ask, stalling her to catch my breath as she pulls back. "Anyone? Tethys, you don't have to be just another machine-like killer. That's no way to live; that's not…not very romantic. There's nothing to enjoy about that. You're still a girl; like me."

"_Enough_," Tethys hisses with a poison I haven't heard from her. "Your attempts at drawing out any weakness are at an end."

Tethys leaps at me as the volcano explodes with fire, lava roaring across the sky. I raise my shield, warding off pyroclastic fall and my attacker's sword. Tethys doesn't step back this time, slamming her sword against mine and driving her fist into my face. I recoil in pain, raising my shield to intercept her next blow as I spit blood from my mouth. Tethys doesn't relent, striking fast and hard as I just manage to hold her off by backpedaling and keeping my shield in front of me. It's a tactic that will only last so long.

Fortunately, that's all I need.

_Whoomp!_ With an explosion of ashen water, rubbery, black tentacles explode out of the sea. Tethys and I are thrown into the water as the squid mutt emerges among the fire and steaming sulfur, bellowing a titanic war cry as it slaps the ocean with its arms.

I scramble to my feet, looking around quickly for my adversary. There she is – Tethys just manages to avoid being hit by the squid as she charges me, throwing herself against my shield and attempting to spear me over the top. I block her slow, glancing blow, driven back by the girl's power. Tethys steps back and I respond in kind, lurching at her and swinging low with my sword.

She's not having any of it. My opponent dodges to the side, kicking me in the knee and sending me flying. She slices down with her sword as I pass, slashing into my Achilles tendon along the way.

"_Ah!" _I scream, plowing into the water with a face-full of ash and soot and losing my shield in the process. Pain explodes through my ankle as I flip over on the sandbar, raising my sword just in time to block Tethys's killing blow.

The squid mutt swings a tentacle horizontally, roaring as it dislocates Tethys from me and hurls her a dozen meters to the side. I struggle to stand, my ankle bleeding heavily into the water and forcing me to rely on my one good leg. I can't beat Tethys like this.

The squid doesn't help. It snatches me by my injured leg when I'm not watching, picking me up and squeezing. I yelp in pain, slashing the tentacle with my sword to free myself. The squid howls and releases, letting me go as it takes a big chunk of flesh with it. Blood flows into the water around me as I struggle onto all fours, my leg bleeding profusely. I cry when I see the wound – muscle and sinew's exposed, white and red flesh laid bare by the beast. I stand up on my good leg, struggling to hold on and find Tethys.

In reality, it's a losing fight now. I can't beat her like this.

_You tried, Skye. You gave it a better shot than anybody would have given you. Sometimes even your best isn't enough._

Tethys, however, is having problems of her own. The squid snatches her up in its arms, grabbing the flailing girl and pitching her into the air like a piece of trash. She lands nearby, struggling to get up from the water.

I realize my chance: With all the strength I have left, I leap at Tethys, driving my sword into her unprotected chest. She gasps as I hit paydirt as her eyes go wide with surprise. However, Tethys is a tough girl and a well-trained volunteer – even what I think is a killing blow isn't enough to stop this machine.

She grabs my sword arm, pulling the sword further into her as she forces me closer. With whatever ounce of power she has left, Tethys grabs my neck with a hand, kicking my knee out and sending my falling into the water. I flip over on my back as she yanks the sword out of her hand, holding it over me like an executioner despite the river of blood flowing from her chest.

"No," she breathes, her face contorting with an expression I haven't seen from her – _rage_. "The Capitol won't take my victory from me. So long…Skye."

Tethys thrusts the sword down just as the squid levels her. She loses her grip on the weapon, its blade impaling the sand an inch from my neck. Unarmed and helpless, Tethys struggles in the squid's grasp – she's out of options.

_And I have only one left._

I pull the sword out of the sandbar, shouting with all my pent-up emotion as I drive the blade into my final opponent. Tethys's back arches as I plunge the sword into her, her face stretching and grimacing in agony. The squid pulls her away as I fall back into the water, resting in the sea and our blood as it shakes the girl from District 2 in its arms.

In her final moments, Tethys proves she's human after all: The girl screams, shrieking in agony and fear as the mutt wraps another arm around her waist. Just like with Autumn, the squid – the Capitol's creation – shows no mercy: With a triumphant battle cry, the squid rips the girl from District 2 in half. It tosses her pieces into the sea, baring its razor-sharp teeth and howling into the sky.

_Looks like the Capitol took victory from you after all, Tethys_.

I slump down onto my elbows, panting in exhaustion and pain as the squid slips back into the water. Flaming pieces of ash and rock float around me, the volcano pouring lava into the sea as I close my fingers around a handful of sand. I'm bleeding badly, my leg's shredded, and the world around me is on fire…but it's over.

It's all over.

I can go home.

I fall over on my back, just managing to keep my head above water. I barely hear old Claudius Templesmith's voice above the sound of sizzling lava and roiling waves: "_Ladies and gentlemen…may I pronounce to you, from District 9, the victor of the 98__th__ Annual Hunger Games – Skye Holdrege."_

Something floats into view in the crimson sky above me, but all I can see is fire – fire, blood, and anger raging around me in my final moments in the arena. Darkness descends upon me, a black curtain drawing a close to this terrible world.

Take me. Take me away from here. Take me home.

I sink into the darkness, my mind going numb.

* * *

_**A/N: Don't go away – there will be two more chapters in this story before I begin the second installment of this series. Check back to see what becomes of Skye – the victor of the 98**__**th**__** Hunger Games – as she navigates her dangerous post-arena future, the eyes of the Capitol turning upon her.**_

_****__** charlie, it's gonna go a lot further than just a Victory Tour, haha…this is part 1 of 5, so four more follow-up stories will come that will encapsulate a long narrative. I've appreciated everyone's readership and feedback so far; thanks so much, guys!  
**_


	30. Aftermath

_Darkness surrounds me as I float through murky mists, dots of white and orange light poking out from the black. I'm powerless, held down by some invisible force as I struggle to get away. A pair of coal-black eyes, as dark as a moonless night, approach – weaving, dancing, edging closer, and I can't help but watch them. _

"_Why struggle?" the eyes say, their voice cold and raspy in this dark world. "Why keep fighting? Do you think there's anything left to fight for? Any part of you left that has yet to be burned and jaded by your trials? Do you think you still have a home to go back to – a home that will take back not the girl it knew, but a stranger warped by circumstance's blade?"_

_I yank my arms in a futile attempt to get free, the force still holding me down tight. The eyes circle about above me, staring down and probing me with their gaze. _

"_Are you fighting for family?" the eyes taunt. "No mother, a father who won't be changed by your victory, and a brother who won't recognize you. For friends? They will change, too…change into things you will no longer understand. For love? Extinguished. You'll never look at it the same again. Your old world is gone, little girl…and in this new one, you are an outsider. You have no place here."_

_I look away in fright as the eyes shatter into a thousand pieces, the darkness breaking before me._

* * *

"Ah!"

I open my eyes wide, my heart thumping as I try to sit up. I'm lying in a long, soft bed, medical restraints holding down my wrists and waist. Lines of soft, sterile white light illuminate an otherwise dark ceiling, with a faint orange glow bouncing off the plain furniture in this wide room.

I'm back in the Training Center. Back in the Capitol…safe at last.

A pair of tubes run into my right arm, pushing some sort of fluid into me to repair what the Games took away. A thick, fluid-filled sack encompasses my wounded leg – no doubt the Capitol doesn't want a victor unable to even walk. I look away from my leg; I don't need any more reminders of the arena, especially not that final fight with Tethys and the squid.

I look around to find I'm not alone. A man stands near the closed door of my dark room, his hands clasped behind his back and his head slightly bowed. He's covered from head to toe in shiny black armor, all the more dangerous-looking in the low light.

_Uh-oh. Am I in trouble?_

"Ah, the victor herself, yes, finally awake…welcome back to a more civilized land, Skye."

A nasally, heavily-accented voice accosts me from across the room. A second man stands, facing out to the towers of the Capitol with his hands firmly placed on the small of his back. He's tall and gaunt, covered from the shoulder down in a long, dark robe and adorned with a head of slick, black hair.

"Scipio," the man raises a finger in the air, addressing the armored sentry by the door. "Leave us."

The armored man curtly nods, withdrawing through the door and closing it silently behind him. From his voice to his posture, I already have an idea of just who the speaker is. In previous Games, I've always seen the victor met on stage by the President during the crowning ceremony, right after the video recap with Corinth. I always figured that was the first time the Capitol's leader met the nearest veteran of the Hunger Games, handing over the crown as an initiation into the circle of victors.

Apparently, waiting until the ceremony isn't enough this time.

The man turns, revealing the face of Panem's young President Nero. Even though I've already seen him in person during the Chariot Parade, he's far more intimidating up close, his yellow eyes all the more poisonous in the dark room.

He raises a crystal glass full of an inky liquid, holding it like an offering as he strolls across the room: "Wine?"

Anxiety surges through my gut – what am I supposed to say to this man? "I…don't think…"

"But of course," he smiles insincerely. "The medical personnel would likely not approve, would they? Besides, I only brought enough for one."

Nero sticks his nose in his ornate glass, taking a long sniff of his drink: "_Chateau Ausone_. A relic of the world that came before…I am a man who appreciates finer tastes. One cannot ignore a measure of class and respectability in every action of daily life…even the uglier actions. I once executed a man by drowning him in wine. It was…_exquisite_. Like soiling a bed of the finest silk."

He chuckles as he rounds on me, setting his glass down on the nightstand next to my bed. Goosebumps crawl across my arms as he looks me over: "But of course you must have questions. You are a victor now, are you not? Such an…_honor_…"

My tongue freezes in my mouth. Of course I have questions – but can I ask _this_ man them? The President of Panem – a man who just told me out of the blue that he has no problem executing people for amusement? What will he do to me if I upset him?

"I don't…" I stutter. "I…"

"But of course you do," Nero repeats. "You just do not want to ask them, do you? Afraid of reprisal…my dear Skye, you were happy to play by the rules in the arena. It seems unlikely that you will violate them now – I trust. I am a loving leader of this nation."

He rubs an oily finger down my arm, sending a sheet of ice up my spine: "Loving indeed. And your following of the rules will ensure we have a long and lucrative relationship, I think. But your questions – you want to know why the Gamesmakers interfered in the end, don't you? Why they gave you a chance, when the other tribute outclassed you so?"

I nod weakly. If the President's willing to make assumptions, who am I to disagree?

"Such a tragedy," Nero opens his arms wide, strolling back to the window and watching over the Capitol. "Little girl from overlooked District 9 makes friends – even love – in the Hunger Games of all events. She has them ripped away, leaving her in tatters and tears – only to face her strongest enemy at the end of all things, surrounded by fire and brimstone, alone and afraid! And as she is at the brink of defeat, all her energy expended combating this merciless warrior, _in_ rides the Capitol's bioengineered emissary, securing victory with divine intervention like an avenging angel from on high. Such a tale! Such a _tragedy_, yet capped off with the flickers of hope and the faith of a happy ending. The Capitol saves the young, vulnerable heroine from the cold, vile, nearly invincible machine. How often do the stars align so?"

He takes a sip from his glass, scratching his chin as he continues: "Your story fascinated my people, kept them craving more and _more_ as they cheered at my feet. Your final enemy – the female from District 2 – controlled the betting throughout the Games. She was the prohibitive favorite. To watch the giant fall to the most unexpected of underdogs, oh, I couldn't resist such a classic tale. Once you had defeated the last tribute from District 1, I would have been a fool to let you die. District 2 has enough winners, anyway; too many and the Games become boring."

Nero chuckles, "My predecessor, Snow, did not understand the value of an underdog. I do not make his mistake. Perhaps that is why I am President, and he…is dead."

I swallow nervously as the President falls silent. I _do_ have a question…one I can only hope won't hurt too much: "What's going to happen to me now?"

"Hm-hm," Nero laughs quietly, crossing his arms over his chest and walking back to me. "I am a loving leader…and I reward those who show me loyalty and love. My people will want more of you, and I am only too happy to oblige. You are a useful tool, and I have my uses for you."

He walks his fingers down my arm, grabbing hold of my pinky in his cold hand: "You are a lovable victor indeed, Skye. And because you so graciously play by the rules…I don't believe you'll have a problem carrying out the assignments I'll have for you. Am I correct in assuming such things?"

I nod quickly, despite my stomach's lurching at his cryptic words. _I have my uses for you…_what do those entail? One thing's clear: If I thought I was safe and free of danger, I was clearly wrong.

"Good," Nero smiles dangerously. "You see? The perks of victory: You prove your loyalty to me; I reward you for your service. Panem will be watching your career with great interest."

He pats me on my good leg, letting his hand linger an uncomfortable second too long before he walks out.

I let out a slow, pent-up breath. There's something undeniably terrifying about the President: Whether it's his casual references to killing for the fun of it all, or his accent, or even his idle sipping of wine while discussing _using_ me like…like I'm just a _thing_ to be thrown away…I'm frightened by what my future holds. The perks of being a victor? The perks are in his eyes only.

A soft knock on the door rouses me from my dreadful thoughts. Fortunately, this visitor is more than welcome to stay.

"Selene!" I cry.

My mentor walks into the room with her hands in her pockets, a smile playing over her face: "Look at you…you look awful."

I can't help but laugh – _typical_. "Thanks. That's what I wanted to hear."

"Well, I _am_ an oracle of optimism," she says, her expression radiating with what can only be pride. "Tell you what. I don't know why the doctors have you tied down to the bed. I'm gonna mess up their work."

"I don't think they'll like that," I say as she pulls the restraints off me.

"I don't like them either. Tit-for-tat."

She picks up my hand in hers, her softer side coming out again: "You did good, Skye. How're you feeling? I saw that ridiculous President come in here to talk to you a while ago."

"I, uh…" I look around nervously. "Is it okay to talk about that?"

"Sure. He already left."

I take a deep breath, spilling my fears to Selene: "I'm scared. I know that sounds dumb when I'm out of the arena and everything, but…he said he has _uses_ for me, and _assignments_, and…and I don't know…"

"Hey," Selene squeezes my hand as I start to cry. "Don't you worry about it, okay? That man's a creep, but you're gonna be okay. Omaha and I will make sure of that – I told you back during training that we wanted to see you come home and be alright. I still mean it. It's gonna be tough, and you're gonna have days when you feel like you can't escape all this…but in the end, you're gonna be alright. I won't let it happen any other way."

"And Skye," she adds uneasily. "If you want to talk about…Mako and Autumn…"

I burst into tears at their names, turning over onto my pillow and jamming my face into the soft fabric. They're already home, maybe already settled into their final resting places…and while I get to live out my life, they'll fade away into memories, their sacrifices quickly forgotten by Panem.

But not by me. I won't forget what happened in that arena.

I can't forget.

Autumn was right during that night we talked on the raft in the middle of the sea. Things can't just go back to the way they were. I can't just replace my feelings, my heart. I'm already paying for my victory in the arena.

And in whatever the road ahead for me holds, I'll pay a little more with every step.

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_**A/N: Note to readers - next chapter, the last chapter of this story, will be published simultaneously with chapter 1 of the sequel. I'll provide the link in an author's note in the epilogue here. Thanks for the comments and for sticking with me through 30 chapters so far!**_


	31. Day 1

_**A/N: Epilogue and final chapter, but there's plenty more to come! The next story and sequel, "Dark Seed of the Soul," is posted and up, and will chronicle the next chapter of Skye's life as she struggles to battle the pressures of the menacing Capitol alongside the fears and machinations of her mind and memories. Hope to have you on board – and thanks to everyone who's reviewed, read, and followed the story through 31 chapters! You guys have been great.**_

_**You can find the next one here: s/9071248/1/Dark-Seed-of-the-Soul **_

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Day 1. It's the first day of my life…my _new_ life; my life after the Hunger Games.

I don't like this big house they put me in – it's too cold, even in the midst of the hot prairie summer; it's too dark, too…_empty_, just like my heart.

I had to watch it all over again – had to watch _him_ all over again as Corinth pulled me on stage in the Capitol for the victory celebration. They plastered shots of Mako and I, Autumn and I, and more times I'll never forget for all of Panem to see – for the audience to _ooh_ and _aah_ over like we were some idle spectacle. Yet there I was, crying on stage like the wounded girl I am – ignored by a crowd who cheered at the bloody deaths of Lattice and Crystal and Tethys. Where I cried, they applauded.

It was all I could do to hold myself together during those last days in the Capitol. Boarding the train was a blessing; leaving behind the Capitol and President Nero a miracle. When I stepped off that train back here in District 9, spotted a familiar, smiling face and fell into my brother's arms, I thought I had been thrown into paradise.

Life's tough in District 9, but tough I can handle. Tough I've weathered, tough I've beaten.

It's the little things, the memories and the dreams, that will haunt me.

People here tell me I'll be okay. Omaha and Selene helped me settle in here in the Victor's Village yesterday after the requisite sessions in front of the cameras and whatnot. I'll need them in the days and months ahead; I can't do this alone. Reed and Shrike wouldn't leave my side after I found them, and I'm overjoyed by the return of my friends. They're friends I know won't be taken away from me…I hope.

_I hope_.

I can only hope, because Nero's words still haunt me. His slithering voice, his silver tongue, his icy touch…"_You are a useful tool, Skye._" If I stop being so useful, what then?

What happens when I can't hang on to this ride any longer?

Sage's snoring in the other room isn't helping me get to sleep here in the early morning hours. I step downstairs, my hand running on the smooth wooden bannister that feels so alien to my touch. I walk past the furnished living room and dining room, full of things I don't understand or even want.

I sit down outside on my new house's front porch, watching the night wind blow dust and dry grass down the dark Victor's Village street. It's so quiet here, surrounded only by a few people I know and so many empty houses. It's hard to imagine how any district fills up their entire village; here in District 9, this is the first time we've had more than two living victors in quite a while.

I lay down on my side on the wooden porch, resting my head against my arm and gazing up at the stars. Somewhere high above me in the sky, Mako and Autumn are up there. They're two of those twinkling stars smiling down tonight, telling me I won't be alone as I fight my next battle.

Mako told me to find a way to be happy again. I don't know how to just forget what's happened and to push on like an average girl, but I've got to find a way. I can't go back on a promise. I can't break my word – not when he wouldn't break his.

I close my eyes, offering up a smile for Mako to see – wherever he is – as sleep overtakes me. For once, the darkness, the black, is welcome. I'm happy to fall asleep here under the stars.

23 tributes are gone. Another year's worth of sacrifices to the Capitol's bloodthirst have been left behind and forgotten.

But the 24th tribute's journey – _my_ journey – has just begun.


End file.
